


Long Roads Walked

by awkward_tendencies



Series: Long Roads Walked [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 26,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23295565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkward_tendencies/pseuds/awkward_tendencies
Summary: My Fallout New Vegas experience was split between three different playthroughs, and here's my attempt to stitch the three characters into one cohesive story.A collection of snippets surrounding my fallout ocs and their companions.
Relationships: Eddies Veronica and Arcade, Max Cass and Rex, Sam Boone and Grandpa Raul
Series: Long Roads Walked [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706299
Kudos: 3





	1. Taking a Chance

“Wow. That’s quite the piece you’ve got there,” a young woman chirped, motioning towards the laser rifle lying on the table.

Ed snapped his head up towards the hooded intrusion, pulling his attention away from his work. He hadn’t heard her approach, and sure as hell didn’t know her, yet here this girl sat at the other end of the weathered table. And interrupting his lunch, too.

“Thanks,” he grunted in acknowledgement, turning his attention back to the field-stripped rifle before him. An AER-9 and a bowl of Blamco, the perfect afternoon.

“No offense, but you look like you’ve traveled a long way down some bad roads. Where’d you come from?”

He glanced up for a second, looking out across the decrepit 188 trading post, so far away from home. Across the seemingly endless expanse of desert, _and its insufferable fucking heat_. “Boston”, he grunted through another spoonful of cheese.

“Wow, you really have come a long way, then. I’ve never been obviously, only ever read about it in history books.”

With that, the conversation lulled. An uncomfortable silence settling over the two.

“Well…” she awkwardly continued, “welcome, then. I’m Veronica. I live in a hole in the ground.”

“Ed. Former Bostonian”.

She chuckled at that, and Ed listed half-heartedly as she explained herself. Something about a family in some underground bunker. Weird shit, he thought, continuing to tune his weapon.

“Can I ask you something on the level?” She scooted towards him intently, leaning in across the table. “I had a run in with a group calling themselves the Brotherhood of Steel, know anything about them?”

That took him aback for a second. “The Brotherhood of Steel? Those guys have a chapter or some shit all the way out here? They’re some militarized cult of technophilic jarheads, word is they pretty much run things in the Capital Wasteland back east. Shouldn’t bother you, unless you’re carrying a laser rifle, of course.”

“Well that shouldn’t be a problem for me, I can’t afford anything like that, Veronica laughed. Odd comment… considering the fucking powerfist she was wearing. “Hey, so where are you headed?”, she asked, changing the subject.

“Vegas. Got business there.”

“Ooo. Very exciting. Gonna strike it rich?”

“Nah, nothing like that,” he laughed, “I do work for the Van Graffs, and they’ve been trying to beef up their security at this branch, courtesy of those Legionary fuckheads, of course.”

“The Van Graffs, huh? Explains the laser rifle.”

“Yep,” he drawled, “if it spits lasers or runs on code, I can make it my bitch.”

That earned him a laugh from Veronica. “I’ll be honest, you’re the first person I’ve run across out here that looks like they can handle themselves. There are places I’ve never been, places that’d be too dangerous for just me alone. Maybe we can travel together, help each other out. What do you think?”

“So much for that family in the bunker of yours,” Ed chuckled darkly.

“Like I said, they can handle themselves. And it’s a big family, I’m not the only one on supply runs.”

He hesitated for a second, remembering a time when another old friend first asked to travel together, and how that’d turned out. “Sure,” he shrugged, “why not.”

“Now you’re talking,” Veronica explained. “One thing you should now know, first, though. I asked you about the Brotherhood because I’m one of them.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious. I know these rags aren’t exactly fashionable, but discretion is the look I’m going for. We’ve made a lot of enemies.”

Sighing and shaking his head, he turned back to his Blamco. “Keep eyeing my laser rifle and you might just make one more.”

“Well, thanks for taking a chance on a naïve young girl from California with stars in her eyes and a pneumatic gauntlet on her hand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character: Edward Black
> 
> S P E C I A L  
> 7 7 6 6 7 4 3
> 
> mercenary


	2. One More for the Road

The dying notes of “One for My Baby” drifted through the dusty air. A familiar crowd of traders and soldiers sat scattered throughout the spacious barracks, drowning their collective boredom at the bottom of bottles. Stagnant, suffocating, and sweltering hot, the Mojave Outpost had lost its charm three bottles of whiskey ago, and that was just this morning.

“Another!” called Cass, slamming her glass against the bar. She dropped a few caps in front of the bartender, watched the amber liquid slosh against the bottom of her glass.

The bartender had that look of pity in her eye again, Cass noted. Despite practically being her most loyal patron, Lacey still felt pity for the jaded woman who sat glued to her bar day in and out. Ever since she’d gotten word of her caravan’s demise, Cass had fallen fully into the bottle. Lacey had seen her fair share of heavy drinkers roll through her bar, but Sharon Cassidy seemed to drink whiskey like water; without her caravan’s income, she seemed dead set to trade whatever caps she had left for a few more drops of booze.

She’d grown tired of seeing Lacey’s pity, overhearing the same old NCR soldiers telling their same old stories. _Fuck_ , she thought, taking a long sip of whiskey, _I’d give my left tit to finally leave this dump_. But where she’d go, she had no fucking clue.

The doors to the makeshift saloon swung open, another weary wastelander has stumbled through. Tipping back his old cowboy hat – a lever-gun slung over one shoulder and a battered leather coat slung over the other – he pulls a bandana from his back pocket, and wipes the sweat from his brow. Out of all the open seats in this godforsaken bar, and this asshole just has to sit next to her. _Great._

Setting his things beside him, he smiled as Lacey appeared before them. “Whatever she’s having, give us two,” he said, motioning towards Cass.

The bartender obliged, and Cass found herself with an extra glass of whiskey. Naturally, she simply downed her first glass and shifted attention to the new drink – and the stranger who bought it.

“Looking for trouble?”

“Not this time,” the stranger chuckled, “I’m here on business.”

“Business?” she asked, fingers tightening around her glass. If this guy didn’t shut it soon, she might just knock his teeth out. “What kind of business.”

“That depends,” he replied coyly, around a sip of whiskey, “You Miss Sharon Cassidy?”

Cass huffed, eyeing the man, “Rose of Sharon. Most people call me Cass.”

“Max.” the man replied, “The Crimson Caravan sent me. They want to buy your caravan.”

“They want to buy Cassidy Caravans? Don’t they know it’s burned to ash?” Cass leaned back, taking a long swig before continuing, “No… even times being as they are, not sure I’m looking to sell, even for all the whiskey in Reno.”

“Why not?”

“If someone came up to you and offered you a thousand caps for your name, would you take it?

Max didn’t stop to think for a second, “Well —”

“Actually, you know what? Fuck it, I don’t want to hear your answer anyways,” she cut him off. “Point is, I made the caravan what it is, it’s mine.”

“I have the offer letter right here, the terms are pretty good,” he again chuckled, turning to open his satchel.

As he dug through his bag for the paperwork, Cass took this moment to better study him. The dark curls and scruffy beard poking out from under his hat, combined with what appeared to be a woman’s floral blouse made this Max character look unassuming enough. However, the twin six-guns hanging from his hips said he meant business. Worn out boots, dusty hat, packed satchel; definitely some kind of courier. Though where he got that honest to god pipboy on his wrist, she could only imagine.

“Here,” he joked, handing over the paper, “Check out the zeros at the end of that.”

Cass paused, reading it over, “Alice McLafferty, eh? No, I see the zeros… and I know she’s good for them. Still it’s not about the money. Dad’d spin like a twister if he ever heard I sold our name for anything.” She took another drink before continuing, “Look, I know you came all this way, and that takes some drive, especially, these days. But it just doesn’t feel right, trading history for a slip of paper.”

“So you’d rather be trapped here at the Outpost? That really worth it?”

“That… that’s a good point,” Cass stopped, thinking over what she’d just heard, “it’s the caravan clearance that’s got me stuck here. I’m sure this bar’s getting tired of propping me up.” Downing the rest of her glass, she sighed, “Give me that paper. I’ll put my name to it. No sense in trying to hold onto the past between your fingers when its nothing but dirt.”

Max watched her scrawl her name across McLafferty’s letter, and motioned the bartender for another round. “Sorry Cass,” he mumbled, “I’m sure signing over something you’ve put your name to is hard, but better than letting it drag you down, I think.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she signed, “but still, that doesn’t make this fucking hurt any less.”

That earned her a laugh, and he raised his fresh glass. “To getting fucked,” he joked, running a hand through his hair, exposing a long jagged scar across his forehead.

She chuckled as well, “To getting fucked.”

Their glasses slam against the table, the end of their second round and they both motion Lacey back over.

“So,” Max began, “what’re you going to do now?”

She honestly had no idea. As far as she could see, she was fucked. She couldn’t stand the thought of heading back West with her tail between her legs. Couldn’t stand Vegas anymore, watched it chew up and spit out too many friends. Definitely couldn’t head East, that Caesar asshole had made sure of that.

Their glasses slam against the table, the end of their third round.

“You know, you could come with me…”

“Go with you?” she scoffed, “and why the hell would I do that?”

“Stay here and you know exactly whats going to happen, day in, day out…”

Their glasses slam against the table, the end of their seventh round.

“You know, I think you’re right ‘bout leaving the Outpost,” Cass slurred.

“Whatzit hmm?” Max hummed in response.

“Fighting boredom don’t sound too bad. Getting real fuckin tired of this boring place. And its boring bullshit.”

Setting down his… eighth? Ninth drink? Max laughed, slurring, “that’s the spirit! Glad you’re not feelin so bad no more, Miss Cass”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say there buddy. Just hang onto the bar there.”

He awoke with a headache, a sharp throbbing between his ears. The morning sunshine striking his eyes like bullets. By the feel of it, his stomach was just about inside out, as well. Reluctantly rolling off his bunk and onto his boots, Max pushed himself to open his eyes.

It was business as usual at the Mojave Outpost, the same crowd of washed-up merchants and NCR army brats up and day drinking like every other morning. Joining them at the bar was a familiar redhead, perched on her favorite barstool.

“Good morning sunshine,” Cass jabbed, clearly enjoying his misery.

“Shut it,” Max dry joked, slinking into an open seat beside her. He noted the glass of whiskey already in her grasp, “Getting a head start, I see.”

“Bite me bitch”.

He huffed a dry laugh, pulling a cigarette pack from his blouse. “¿Quiéres?”

She turned him down on that offer, watching instead as he slipped one between his lips. Using a sparking silver lighter, adorned with some cheesy pinup girl, he lit the end.

“So,” blowing out a puff of smoke, “when do you want to hit the road?”

That took her back for a second, “Really, we were serious about this?”

“Well, why the hell not? Like I said, it’ll beat another night here at the Outpost.”

“Yeah sure, says the guy I barely fucking know”

“Look, I’m not trying to rope you into any weird shit, I swear. I’m just a courier. Could just use someone watching my back on the road is all.”

She took a long sip of whiskey, feeling it pool in the pit of her stomach. She needed a moment to think. This guy seemed innocent enough, she supposed, and if he wanted to rob her, he wouldn’t have gotten so piss drunk last night. He’d come all the way here from the Crimson Caravan’s camp, and that took balls. Especially since he’d made his trek alone, meaning he was either tough as nails, or dumb as shit.

She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He seemed to be on the level, and was looking for someone capable to lend a hand – not just string along. So she’d play nice for now, and accept the free ride out of the Outpost, knowing that should this guy try any weird shit, she’d blow his goddamn head off.

“Alright then, Max,” she chuckled, “let me finish my drink, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character:
> 
> Max Garcia
> 
> S P E C I A L  
> 4 7 4 7 3 7 9
> 
> Gambler, thief, courier


	3. Familiar Fires

He straightens the beret upon his head. Blood splatters across his face. Jeannie May drops dead at his feet, before either of them hears the shot. She had sold a woman into slavery, simply because she hadn’t liked her. By all means, the bits of blood and brain soaking into the ground serve as her justice.

It was Divine Intervention he had crossed paths with Max again. They always seemed to meet when one of them needed a hand. On this day, it would seem both of them were in need of help; one fresh from the grave and the other looking for blood, both lost in their own way. Though he’d only come to Novac to sweet talk that sniper for information, Max was all too happy to put his old skills to use again when asked for a favor. Cracking open Jeannie’s safe, he found where the town’s missing woman had truly gone.

Wiping the blood from his glasses and stepping over Crawford’s headless corpse, Samuel made his way back to the Dinosaur, back to the grieving husband who had pulled the trigger. Climbing up the ladder and out the beast’s throat, he found said husband sitting wordlessly, staring through the monster’s teeth across the desert.

“That’s it, then,” he finally began. “How did you know?”

Sam pulls the folded paper from his vest pocket, handing it to the sullen sniper. “Had an old friend break into her safe. Found her bill of sale.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’d be like them to keep paperwork.” Taking back his recon beret, he hands over a sack of caps, “Here, this is all I can give. I think our dealings are done here.”

Huffing a grunt of gratitude, Sam takes the caps. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know,” the sniper began, fixing his beret, “I won’t be staying, I know that. Don’t see much point in anything right now, except hunting legionaries. Maybe I’ll wander, like you.”

He hesitated for a moment, watching the man. Should this man come with him, Sam knew the life he led may doom his companion a horrible death. However, there was something familiar in the broken man’s eyes. Hatred, anger, a thirst for vengeance; he recognized it all too easily, knowing that the urge for revenge would overcome him, and he’d lead a similar life regardless.

“Come with me. Let’s go after the Legion.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“We’ll kill more if there’s two of us.”

“Yeah. That might be true. And that’s reason enough for me to take you up on it, I suppose. But this isn’t going to end well.”

Sam huffs a dry laugh, “I’ve lived this life long enough. Trust me, I’m aware.” Pointing at the other man’s rifle, he continues, “Besides, don’t snipers need spotters?” He then points to his eyeglasses “And I could sure use the long-distance overwatch, given my obvious shortcomings.”

Boone thought for a moment, before finally answering. “Fine. Let’s get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character:
> 
> Samuel Knox
> 
> S P E C I A L  
> 7 3 8 6 6 5 5
> 
> former NCR soldier, bounty hunter, bullet maker


	4. Seen Without Judgement

“You kept away the undesirables, patted down the rest for weapons, and kept your cool. That is to say, you did as instructed. Simon was impressed, and so was I. So you get a small bonus with your normal pay.” Gloria Van Graff handed the caps over, somewhat impressed with her new employee. Though it was only his first day on the job, he managed to intercept a suicide bomber, preventing him from destroying the Silver Rush and everyone in it. This Edward Black had come recommended from the Redding branch of Van Graff business, a mercenary competent with laser weapons who didn’t ask too many questions. _Perfect_.

Handing over the large sack of caps, she warned, “Don’t do anything stupid with this, like blowing it at the Wrangler.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cigarette smoke clouded the air, clinging to the gaudy yellow wallpaper. Despite the crumbling and unassuming exterior, the Atomic Wrangler was a bustling hub of gambling and gossip. Chiming slot machines, cheap chems and booze, and even cheaper pussy. This was _exactly_ the kind of place Ed had been hoping for, dreaming of ever since he was told he’d be shipped out to the Vegas branch. _What better way to celebrate my first night in town?_ he thought to himself.

Leaving the bar, beer in hand, Ed scanned the gambling floor, searching for a familiar hooded figure. She was seated at a far table in a quiet corner of the room, and he took the chair opposite her. “Thanks for meeting me here.”

Veronica laughed, “I thought you said you _weren’t_ going to Vegas to strike it rich at the casinos?”

“Change of plans,” he chuckled, ‘It’s payday. I’m going to celebrate.”

“By throwing all your caps at the card tables?”

“Fuck no!” Ed laughed, “I have shit luck, I suck at cards. I’m just trying to get piss drunk, if you want to join me.”

She let out another laugh, “Yeah, these places aren’t really my thing, either. And I’m guessing you already got a head start on the getting drunk thing.”

“Maybe,” he shot her a mischievous smirk around the lip of his bottle. “That just means you have to catch the fuck up.”

Smiling and huffing a sigh of defeat, she thought to hail a waitress. Spotting a woman moving between tables collecting abandoned glasses, Veronica waved her over.

“What can I do for you, hun?” She was beautiful, tall with long blonde locs, and Veronica couldn’t help but ogle her pristine pre-war dress.

“Can I get a beer, please?”

That took the woman looked a little taken aback. “That’s all?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“You sure there’s nothing else I can get you, babe?” The woman suddenly moved in closer, bringing her lips down to Veronica’s ear. “I’d love to bring you upstairs somewhere private.”

Veronica’s face was burning red as she suddenly realized that this woman was _not_ just a barmaid. “Uh… no thanks,” she managed to stammer out. All this was quickly becoming far too forward for her comfort level. _This is why I stay clear of casinos._

Ed laughed at her embarrassment. “How about two beers and two shots of vodka?” he asked, handing the woman a few caps. “And maybe,” he added with a wink, “come back later…”

Watching the woman saunter off towards the bar, Veronica buried her face in my hands. She could hear Ed loudly laughing across from her. “So glad you’re here enjoying my embarrassment”, she grumbled against the tabletop.

The merc chuckled, “Welcome to Vegas, I guess.”

Somewhere along the way, they had migrated to the bar. Perched on neighboring barstools and deep in the bottle, the two found themselves swapping stories. Or, Ed was telling stories, at least. Veronica, having been so long hidden away in her bunker, was eager to hear astounding tales from far away. And Ed, being so far from home, was either homesick or drunk enough to keep rambling.

“Can I ask you another question?”

“Shoot.”

“What’s with the forehead?”

Ed paused; he knew this question would eventually come. It always did. Forehead tattoos tend to be attention grabbing apparently, no matter how simple they were. “B positive. My blood type.”

“So doctors always know what kind of blood to give you?” she guessed, “Huh, that’s smart, I guess. But still, why the forehead?”

“I was a part of a small outfit back East. A band of mercenaries, skilled in advanced tech and robotics. We called ourselves the ‘Gunners’. Each of us got the tattoo, like a rite of passage thing.”

“High tech and robotics? Like what?” the scribe pipped, curious. She couldn’t help it, her imagination started to run. “How many of you were there?”

“Not too many”, Ed confessed, downing another beer. “We were small, but we knew how to recruit, kept growing fast. I give it a few years before they’re a fully functional paramilitary. But as far as tech went, we were lightyears ahead of anyone else. A few suits of power armor, lots of lasers and plasma, even a vertibird. We also managed to hack some military robots for our own use; a few protectrons, a sentrybot, some assaultrons…”

“Hold on! You had real working assaultrons?!” she squealed excitedly. “That is so cool! Those things are like extremely rare, they were only just seeing production when the bombs fell. Not even the Brotherhood has managed to get their hands on a working one."

“Yeah, well, we had several,” he jabbed.

Before she could voice another question, someone slipped into the barstool beside her. “Hello again, hun,” purred a familiar blonde, “Finally ready for me to help you out of those rags?”

Started, Veronica found herself unable to reply, mouth agape. The same woman from earlier, in that same silky dress. She couldn’t help but notice how the soft blues of the woman’s dress helped her ocean eyes shine. Forward as usual, the woman seemed somehow prettier than before, her soft voice tempting. _I am definitely too tipsy for this_ , she gulped. “Uh, n-no thank you. I’m good…”

The woman laughed, “Too bad, then. Maybe another time.” Leaning forward, turning her attention across Veronica to Ed, she continued, “What about you, handsome?”

He hesitated a second, meeting eyes with Veronica. Downing another beer, he chuckled, “Abso-fuckin’-lutely.”

Veronica had moved back to a table, annoyed at her new friend’s sudden ditching her. She couldn’t stop thinking of that waitress still. Lost in her blue eyes, her sky dress. These thoughts were suddenly ripped away, however, as Ed ungracefully plopped into a chair beside her, smirking.

“Thanks for ditching me back there,” she awkwardly joked.

“Yeah, sorry about that, or whatever.”

An uncomfortable beat of silence fell between the two, neither knowing what to say. Veronica anxiously rubbed the back of her hand. Ed reached for his cigarettes, which he seemed to suck down like water.

He lit one, “How come you didn’t go for it?”

“What?”

“Emily, the girl. She was all over you back there, and you didn’t pull the trigger.”

“I- I don’t know what you mean,” she stuttered, face flushed.

“Don’t gimme that shit. Don’t think I didn’t see you bushing, lost in her eyes.”

She could only stare at him, stunned as he once again laughed at her embarrassment. “I- uh-“

“Don’t worry”, he reassured. “I’m just busting your balls, giving you a bad time. If you like women or something, I don’t give a shit.”

“What?”

“I used to travel with a friend, horny bastard who fucked anyone who could walk,” he chuckled, reminiscing. “Who you fuck is your business. And trust me, I get it. Pussy is pretty good.”

She chuckled at his last well-meaning joke. Though brash and crass, he seemed like a good enough guy. He’d somehow seen right through her, without judging her for who she was. That was more than she could say for her so called “family”. Pushing down bitter memories, she didn’t want to cry in public. Especially knowing that doing so would come particularly easy at the moment, given she’d always been a messy drunk.

Veronica snapped out of her daze, looking up across the table to find her new friend once again gone. _That’s right_ , she thought, letting it come back to her. They had made the switch to vodka at some point in the night, and if she wasn’t drunk before, she sure as _hell_ was now. Ed had wandered off to the bar for another refill, momentarily leaving her to stew in her drunken stupor.

She took a long sip from the can of purified water sitting before her, feeling it pool with the booze in the bottom of her stomach. _This is going to suck in the morning_ , she thought. _And damn that Ed guy for making me drink this much_.

Commotion caught her drunken attention. A man roughly grabbing a woman by the arm, shouting threatening nothings. Ocean eyes wide in fear.

She didn’t know what came over her, but she felt her fist drive into the man’s nose, feeling it pop under her knuckles. It wasn’t until after she threw the punch that she realized just how large he loomed over her.

The man stumbled backwards, clutching his face “Fucking bitch!” he cried through his fingers, “Damn bitch broke my nose!” He took a running step towards her, throwing her a backhand.

Too drunk to react in time, he caught her across the face, nearly knocking her on her ass. He threw another jab, which she managed to neatly counter, only to get clocked again by a surprise left hook. As he wound back for another punch, a chair smashed over his back. Ed punched the man in the side as he doubled over, but the guy threw back an elbow and caught him in the eye. Though the man towered over both the scribe and the merc, they had him flanked, and he couldn’t fight them both off at the same time. Though bruised and battered themselves, they managed to pummel their opponent into the floor.

They didn’t get much time to enjoy their victory though, as the Garret Twins promptly had the victorious duo thrown outside into the street. Despite saving their working girl, they’d still caused a heap of trouble and had to be made an example of.

And with that, the pair of drunks found themselves sitting on the curb outside some place called Mick and Ralph's. Silence hung between them as they nursed their wounds, feeling the cold night air seep into their bones.

“Thanks for having my back in there,” she eventually let out, pulling her hood in closer over her poor freezing ears.

He took a drag off his cigarette, nursing his black eye “No problem.”

“That guy was hurting that girl from earlier, had her by the arm… I don’t know what happened.”

Ed huffed a laugh, “I was looking for an excuse to start a barfight. And as far as excuses go, that’s not a bad one.”

She chuckled at that. _Maybe this mercenary isn’t so bad after all._


	5. Fires Burning, Memories Reminiscing

Another day, another bar to loiter at. She set her empty glass against the countertop, followed by a few caps; all of which happily scooped up by James Garret, the barkeep. Though they had come to the Wrangler “strictly for business”, Cass couldn’t resist the pull of a barstool. She watched her companion shake hands with the other Garret twin, Francine, no doubt having just been paid for some odd job or other.

“Ready to hit the road?” Max asked, approaching the bar.

“Yeah, already finished my whiskey.”

The two were drowned in a dry heat as they stepped out into the street, the usual melting midday sun of the Mojave still burning fierce as always. The usual ensemble of destitute and drunks lining the streets of Freeside sat scattered, clinging to dwindling swatches of shade.

“Where’re we headed now, exactly?” Cass grumbled, pulling the brim of her hat down low, trying in vain to shield her eyes from the sun’s bright gaze.

“Primm”, Max replied, face pressed against his pipboy. _This glare’s making the screen impossible to see,_ he thought _, if we get lost because I can’t read the damn map, it’s the stupid sun’s fault._

Cass huffed in acknowledgement. She’d been through the town before, _As good a place to drink as any_ , she supposed. As they rounded the corner of the block, her focus was torn from her thoughts as a rabid dog began its charge.

“ _Shit!_ ” she swore loudly, staring down the enclosing mongrel. Reaching for her pistol, she watched panic-stricken as the beast continued past her, barking loudly. She heard Max loudly cry out behind her as the thing pounced at his throat. Gun drawn, she spun around to find him fighting the mutt away from his face. She took aim as he cried out again.

“Woah, woah, easy buddy!” he shouted, turning his face away from the dogs ever so vicious licking tongue, “Good to see you too, yes it is!”

“What the fuck?” Cass asked, lowering her revolver. She could only stare on incredulously as Max stooped down to pet the damn thing. Mechanical legs, its brain in a jar, it was like no dog she had ever seen before –- more machine than canine. Yet here this idiot was practically rolling in the dirt with it, giving its steel undercarriage loving scratches. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I know this dog,” Max said happily, continuing to give the cyborg lots of love. “I got him on loan from The King. It’s a long story.”

She could only stare dumbfounded, watching their continued play. _Who the fuck is this guy?_

“Run this by me one more time. He wants you to replace its brain?!”

“Yep.”

“How the fuck do you even know this King?”

Max took a deep swig of whiskey, leaning back against the building. They had stumbled across some run-down shack as the sun began to set on their trek, so they had decided to make camp. Ripping enough boards from the windows, they managed to start a small fire outside. “Like I said it’s a long story.”

“Bullshit,” Cass replied taking the bottle back. “Out with it.”

He huffed a laugh, “I met him years back. Was in Vegas with an old friend, and we drunkenly stumbled into one of their karaoke nights. I happened to know the song so I hopped up on stage, only to know the next song… and the next. Ended up bringing the house down.”

“Yeah, sure,” she laughed.

“I’m serious. Growing up, mom had one of those old holotape player things, used to play it all the time. Her favorite tape was the best hits of some guy called Elvis. Turns out that not only did he make killer music, but the guy was some kind of old world royalty as well!”

“Huh”, she exhaled, taking a swig. She didn’t know what to make of this guy. For such a seemingly simple courier, he’d proven to be anything but in the short few days they’d been traveling together. Quick with a joke or odd story, and even quicker with a six gun. Now to find out he’d been entrusted to play doctor to a dying robodog. _What’s next?_

After a beat of silence passed between the two, Max spoke up. “Nice necklace, by the way.”

She looked down at the pendant dangling from her neck. “Thanks”, she huffed. “It’s a rose. Gift from my dad, like my name. ‘Rose of Sharon Cassidy’. Mom said he got the name from some old world book about dirt pilgrims. Name sure sounds sweet, though.”

He listened for a while, quietly sipping whiskey while she spoke about her family. Her tribal mother, her disappeared father, her leaving California in search of something unclear. A story all too familiar to him.

“What about you? What’s your story?” she asked, reaching for the bottle, “You mentioned a mother earlier…”

He hesitated, “I grew up in Junktown. Don’t know where I was born, but that’s were I called home for a long time.” Taking back the bottle, he continued, “I never knew my father either. Hell, I don’t even know his name. _Mi mama_ was the only parent I had. She didn’t have much, but did what she could to keep me fed.” He took a drink with a laugh, “She’s the one who taught me how to gamble. She used to love games, any kind – card games, board games... There’s nothing like a game of blackjack for the last helping of pork n' beans.”

She chuckled at that, feeling the fondness he had for the memory. “Where is she now?”

“We moved to the Hub when I was thirteen. I came home late one night after playing dice… found her cold. Med-X o.d."

“Damn.”

“Yeah. It’s the wasteland, it happens,” he said, mimicking her earlier sentiments towards her late father's fate.

She huffed a dry laugh, taking the bottle back. “Sounds like it. I’ll drink to that.”

They each took a turn pulling from the bottle, polishing it off. The fire had started to die down, and dusk had finally fallen. The cyber-dog, Rex, snored softly, head in Max’s lap.

“Alright then, I’m going to turn in,” Cass said, rising to her feet, “Coming?”

"In a minute, I’ll head in once this fire dies. Besides,” he said, motioning to the dog, “seems like I’m pinned here for the time being.”


	6. Meeting Friends, New and Old

“I told you, son. Ain’t got no work for you, time being.”

Ed shook his head, annoyed. No, pissed off. It was just his luck, of course the most prolific courier service in the whole Mojave wouldn’t have a job available while he was in town. _Mojave Express, my ass_ , he thought.

Old Johnson Nash took another look at his clipboard, “Last shipment went out yesterday, and we ain’t got nothing since. We got plenty of provisions though, you’re welcome to look around the shop.” With that, he turned his attention back to his inventory check.

Sighing, Ed fished the cigarettes from his back pocket.

“Hey, check this out!”

He turned his attention to Veronica. The small scribe stood at the counter, observing an old battered eyebot lying among the scrap.

“ED-E,” she read out, pointing to the weathered license plate affixed to its side, “Its called 'Eddie,' like you."

He huffed, bringing the lighter to his lips. “Huh, would you look at that,” he replied dryly.

“It doesn’t look _too_ damaged”, she said inspecting the exposed circuitry bleeding through its frame, “maybe we can get it back in better shape.”

“And why the fuck would we do that?” he asked, exhaling smoke.

“I don’t know…” she continued, “it might be something fun to do. Aren’t these things like portable radios? Maybe we can tune into Radio New Vegas, make our long walks on the beach together a little less boring.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled, “let me see it.” He made his way to the counter, and took a better look at the damaged machine. Upon further inspection, it wasn’t as busted as he’d expected. Some of the servos needed replacing, the thing had probably been shot at from the look of it, but he found that most of its primary and secondary systems were still pretty functional.

“Hey, old man,” Ed called out, “How much for this hunk of junk?”

Nash turned his head, “That old thing? Hell, I’ll let you have it if you can get it up and running again, take it off my hands. I had hoped to use it for courier work, but I couldn’t get the thing working. Guess my tinkering days are long gone.”

With that, Ed took a long drag from his cigarette. _This should be easy enough_.

The two stepped out into the Mojave sun, followed by their newfound floating friend. As it turned out, this little eyebot might prove itself useful. Veronica was right, most eyebots were little more than flying radios; this little guy, however, was no radio, instead outfitted with a state of the art multi-tool interface, complete with everything a decent repairman could ever ask for. While its exterior was held together by jury-rigged handiwork, its internals were undoubtedly pre-war tech. Wherever this thing had come from, someone had clearly put a lot of work into building it.

The only downside? _It was no radio_. Damn thing didn’t pick up radio frequencies, instead just sputtered incomprehensible beeping. What it meant, neither he or the scribe could make out.

Just as he put another cigarette between his lips, he was shoved roughly from behind. Dropping his cig and lighter, he instantly saw red.

“What? You think you’re better than me tough guy?” a stranger yelled from behind, “Fuck you, bud!”

Ready to knock the man’s lights out, Ed wheeled around to face the man. A handsome stranger in a cowboy hat, pistols holstered at the hips.

“You think you’re better than me tough guy?! Fuck you, bud!”

Veronica spun around, expecting a fight. She’d seen her friend in that last barfight, and knew that –- if this stranger was looking for someone to fight –- Ed would happily oblige

She could only watch as Ed spun around, fist at the ready... and froze. He hesitated, dropped his fist, and instead gave the man a playful shove back. Then another, and another, before busting out in laughter.

“Son of a bitch”, he cried, “You scared the shit outta’ me”. Pulling the stranger in a warm embrace, he continued, “I oughta’ fucking drop you right here.”

The other man laughed, and returned the hug. “Not so funny, now, being on the other end of that shit? Now you know what I had to put up with for two years, asshole.”

She blinked, dumbfounded. “What the hell is going on?”, she blurted out.

Ed turned, wrapping one arm around the other man’s shoulders. “Veronica, I’d like you to meet Max. This stupid motherfucker is an old friend of mine.”

She shook his hand, bewildered, letting him continue.

“This is that guy I was telling you about at the Wrangler the other night. He was one of the first guys I met out here after leaving Boston, let me stick by his side for a few years.”

The robot beeped a short greeting.

“Why, your name is Eddie too? How funny is that, happy to meet to you, buddy,” Max said, giving the eyebot a gentle pat.

Ed and Veronica shot each other a glance. “What, you can understand this thing?” he asked, incredulously.

“Yeah, why?” he answered plainly, “You guys can't?”

"Jesus, fuck. It’s always something with you, huh,” Ed laughed.

“That’s nothing. Watch this,” Max chuckled, whistling loudly for his four legged cyborg.

The gang found themselves at the bar of the Bison Steve, sharing a few quick drinks. Introductions were easy – Ed, Veronica, and their robot at one side of the table; Max, his robot dog, and some angry cowgirl named Cass at the other. _Jesus, what a bunch we are_ , Ed thought to himself.

The old friends had a lot to catch up on. Ed was horrified to see Max’s scar, and hear what had happened to him. Robbed, shot, and buried in a shallow grave. Unbelievable. If anyone would be lucky enough to survive such an ordeal, of _course_ it would be him.

“What was it you were carrying?” Ed asked. There could have been no other reason for it. Wrong place, wrong time, unlucky enough to be the courier assigned valuable cargo. _But lucky enough to live through, not one, but two rounds to the head._

“I have no idea,” he admitted, “it looked like some kind of poker chip. Mr. Nash at the Mojave Express told me I was one of six couriers hired for the job. Whatever it was, it was valuable to somebody. Some of the others weren’t as lucky as me.”

Leaning back, in his chair, Ed took a long drag from his cigarette. “So, what are you going to do now? Any ideas on how to find these guys?”

“Working on it,” Max began, dragging from his own cigarette, “I know he had hired help from some Khan raiders, but I don’t know who the asshole in the suit was, himself. Right now Cass and I are on our way South, hopefully one of my old gambling buddies there knows something about a shiny poker chip.”

“South, huh? Where to?”

“Nipton.”


	7. Silhouette of Reapers

Black smoke billowed into the sky, bringing with it the smell of death. Burnt rubber, seared flesh, the silent screams of the dead. He clawed in vain at the ground before him, dragging his broken body across the scorching sands. Bloody fingers wrapped around his fallen dagger, only to be crushed under booted heel. Rolling on his side, he looked up at the wastelander. Eyes burning of hatred. Head haloed by the blinding sun, anointed by the sky.

“Damn you. You know not who you are killing. The profligates you protect will burn before him!” Vulpes spat, before being silenced by the deafening roar of a 12-gauge.

They could see the smoke before they crested the hill. Vultures, circling in the distance. _Never a good sign_.

Pistols drawn, the party took their tentative steps into town. Whimpering, Rex led the duo through the streets, and the parade of death that adorned it. Refuse and bodies lay in smoldering heaps. Blackened corpses hung from crosses, baking in the desert sun. It was as if hell itself had come for Nipton.

At the far end of the street, two men stood among the dead. The silhouettes of reapers wading through a bloody bog of bodies. The cyber-dog barked loudly at their presence, disturbing the silent figures from their scavenging. Guns were pointed briefly, before being lowered.

Max recognized these men; they’d had him break into Jeannie-May’s safe days back. One an old friend, the specter of death himself. The other a loner, the night watch sniper from Novac. “Sam? Wha- what the fuck happened here”

“The legion,” the bounty hunter answered darkly. “Said the place was a den of sin and vice, needed to be erased. Punished. They– “ he took a breath, collecting himself, fists tightening, “They rounded up everyone in town, made them play a lottery. The losers were decapitated… then crucified… then enslaved.”

Falling to his knees, Max collapsed. _He’d known people in this town, had friends here._ He felt something wash over him, like the sins of another. Like he’d been here before, witnessing the aftermath of destruction, knowing nothing could be done to save those he’d cared for. He couldn’t place it, but he’d felt this hopelessness before, this guilt. Somewhere, he carried something broken within him; in his soul, a divide.

Beside him, Cass felt this morning’s whiskey rise to her throat. Turning away, she violently wretched against one of the battered buildings, heaving bitter bile onto the asphalt. She wasn’t one to lose her liquor, and she’d seen some fucked up shit, but _this_ was something else entirely.

Watching the others experience the same hell they had walked into only minutes before, Sam and Boone remained silent, stewing in boiling fury. If they hadn’t been dead set on ending the Legion before, this senseless massacre etched their warpath into stone.

Cass found herself perched upon a familiar barstool, once again drinking whiskey at the Mojave Outpost. The group had come directly here from the ashes of Nipton, not speaking a word to each other all the while. Urgently needing to alert the NCR as to the town’s fate, Sam and Boone went to report back to Sergeant Kilborn and Ranger Ghost – leaving the courier, the caravaner, and the dog at the bar. Neither of them spoke, each drowning their sorrows in their respective glasses.

Max was the first to break the silence. “Fuck…” he whispered.

“Fuck,” she replied. There was nothing else to say. Nothing to ease the loss, nothing to make the situation right.

“Place of sin and vice,” he mumbled from under the brim of his hat, wiping at tears. There had been good people in Nipton. Vice, addiction, sex work, none of that made a person any less deserving of life. Yet the fucking Legion had come, and made those people face fear and suffering and torture just because they could.

Cass couldn’t believe it either. She’d seen plenty of people meet unpleasant ends through her decades on the road, but never anything as brutal as this. What the Legion did to Nipton was unacceptable, the women and children they captured… “I don’t know how, kid. But we’ll make the Legion pay,” Cass told him.

Boone grunted in agreement as he approached the bar, putting an empty barstool’s length between himself and the rest of the group. He knocked on the bar, signaling the bartender for a drink. A moment passed before he finally spoke. “Another legion massacre. God knows how many taken as slaves… The Legion needs to be dealt with. Everyone wearing a red sash needs a bullet to the brain,” he muttered darkly.

“Well, shit, I’ll drink to that,” said Cass.

Max chuckled rubbing his temple, “Good luck with that. I hear that doesn’t always end the way you’d think.”

“And what is that supposed to mean,” the sniper spat angrily.

“What- nothing. It was a joke.” Max clarified, startled. Pointing to his scar, he continued, “Been there myself.”

Even through the man’s sunglasses, Max could tell Boone was glaring at him. “Yeah, well, this isn’t anything to joke about. The Legion is no laughing matter. Is something about this funny to you?”

“N-no, I was just trying to ease the fucking-“

“Boone, easy.” Samuel called, approaching the group. “That’s enough.”

He grunted in response.

“We’ve got new orders,” Sam continued, “we’re to report to Camp McCarran, asap.”

Again, Boone simply grunted, downed his drink and grabbed his pack. Without another word, the two former soldiers were gone.

With that, Max and Cass fell into another silence, drinking more and more whiskey. He thought about her words; _He didn’t know how, but he would make the Legion pay._


	8. A Puzzling Morality

Jagged pebbles dug into his elbows, the frigid night air nipped at his skin, the thick bristles of a bush scratched incessantly at his face. From a small ridgetop, a distant hawk was stalking its prey. The unsuspecting camp remained silent, its otherwise volatile occupants asleep for the time being. No movement from the raiding party for two days.

Boone lowered the scope and rubbed his weary eye, he’d been staring down the crosshairs for hours now. Slithering silently out from the shrubbery he’d been using for cover, the sniper crawled back down the ridge towards camp. The bounty hunter sat on his bedroll, tearing at strips of dried jerky with his teeth. A fire would give away their position, so the soldiers were forced to face the desert freeze. “No movement.” he said, rolling into his bedroll.

“Good,” Knox grumbled, forcing down his mouthful of tough jerky, “then we've got Driver Nephi right where we want him. We wait ‘til sundown tomorrow, surprise them in their sleep.”

Grunting in affirmation, Boone spat, “Fucking fiends. NCR should’ve wiped them out long ago.”

Knox chuckled, “Frankly, NCR’s got its hands full in the Mojave. Stretched itself too thin. Back in the day, Mojave was safe, NCR had control of its roads and could protect its people. Now they’re too busy fighting legionaries and conquering tribals to maintain the land it has.”

Teeth gritting, fists clenching, Boone rolled over to face him. “That so?” he snapped angrily.

“For sure. Ever since the NCR absorbed the Desert Rangers, they’ve done nothing but do the same to others.”

“You wear NCR dog tags. Why’d you join, then.”

The bounty hunter took a moment before answering, turning to face his companion. This late at night, the sniper was without his signature glasses. He could see his eyes – angry, questioning – knew the once proud recon marksman must’ve held mixed feelings for the army he once served. He knew those feelings all too well, recalled what it was like to turn his back on that which you worshiped unquestioning. Choosing his words carefully, he continued.

“My father was a Desert Ranger, one of the last. He spent decades wandering the wastes, fighting day and night against 80’s raiders. He kept the roads safe, kept traders alive. The NCR is massive, and is now forced to focus all its resources on protecting its miles of territory from outside invaders, instead of maintaining internal order. In a time like this, they should be using everything they have left to protect its people, not conquer new ones.”

A long moment passed before Boone spoke. “I enlisted to protect my nation. Instead, I found myself fighting its wars. Always assumed it was to eliminate threats to the people. Never considered it was to eliminate threats to their power.”

Knox nodded, “I understand. Joined to make a difference, patrol the roads like my old man. Ended up enforcing tax payments from tribal villages.”

Another long moment passed. “Yet, you're still here, helping the NCR. Doing jobs for Major Dhatri out of McCarran. Why?”

“Like I said, NCR has to focus on the legion. Between them, there’s no other alternative for the wasteland. It may be oppressive, but at least NCR gives its people some semblance of aid and freedom. So right now, it’s up to us to pick up the slack, help those we can. NCR means well, it just needs to be pushed back in the right direction.”

Like usual, Boone simply grunted in acknowledgement. He didn’t say another word, just rolled back over in his bed roll. He was done talking for now. The bounty hunter had just given him more to think about, dropped more pieces of a moral puzzle into his lap. He still wasn’t sure what to make of all this; the NCR and its ultimate goals, and his place in all of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me thus far. I know the chapters are short, but I've been managing to get these out pretty frequently.


	9. Behind our Bluffs

Their routine was familiar by now. Complete a job, get paid, drink whiskey. Like clockwork, Max and Cass found themselves camped out at the Atomic Wrangler, drinking away a portion of their payday. After having to deal with that Santiago sleazebag again, he deserved a drink or two. Hell, maybe even a hit of jet.

“Will you stop bringing that up!” Max insisted, “It was _one_ time.”

Cass laughed at his misery. “I can’t believe you fell for that guy’s scam last time! Like Mick and Ralph would give anyone, let alone _that guy_ a special discount.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, harshly gulping down whiskey.

She snickered at his embarrassed shame, watching as he defeatedly pulled a pack of smokes from the pocket of his floral blouse.

“ _¿Quieres?_ ” He offered her the carton.

She hesitated for a second. “Eh, why not?” she huffed, taking him up on his offer. Using that same silver pinup lighter of his, he lit the end for her. Again, she watched as he returned the pack and the light to his front pocket. “Why the blouse?”, she thought aloud.

“Huh?”

“Your shirt, it’s a woman’s shirt, see the way its cut?” _Hell, I’m surprised he can find one that fits him, lanky bastard._

“So?” he emphasized defensively, “It’s a pretty shirt. I want to wear it.”

That earned him a laugh, “What, trying to be pretty, are you?”

“Always,” he winked.

Hopping off his barstool and shedding his coat, Max twirled dramatically before his companion, unbuttoning the top of his shirt and swinging his arms.

She laughed at his impromptu fashion show. _He’s right_ , she thought, _it doesn’t look too bad on him._ Suddenly realizing how stuffy it was in the packed casino, Cass decided _fuck it_ , and joined Max in shedding her jacket, and undoing the first few buttons of her shirt.

As he spun around, Max caught a pair of eyes looking their way from across the room. A handsome little smooth talker, clad in leather and booty shorts. _Santiago_. “Oh god,” he chuckled, sitting back down, “I think a certain someone is checking us out.”

She followed his gaze. “Great,” she mumbled.

Max laughed and gave her a playful shove on the shoulder. “He’s probably checking you out.”

“Yeah, sure. _You_ were the one who was just about to put on a strip tease,” she joked, rolling her eyes.

“Well he was staring down _your_ shirt the whole time we shook him down for caps the other day,” he added, before giving an exaggerated shudder. “Besides, I’m nothing special. Just skin and bone, it’s a miracle I survive the Mojave sometimes.”

She took a long drink, “Well, I’m not one for soft living or soft men, let me tell you. Otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you – on both counts.”

Max froze for a second, taken aback, before regaining composure. “Why, Miss Cassidy…” he asked with an exaggerated coy tone, “are you flirting with me?”

“Don’t take that as anything more than my words,” she said, watching the sly grin grow across his face. “I bet you’re a real sweetheart the way you leave the trail of broken hearts behind you. I know your look, you probably say all the right things…”

He looked almost dejected by that for a second, before looking back at her with that same shit eating grin.

James Garret cleared his throat, appearing between them. He placed some tall, fruity drink on the bar before them.

“Uh… I didn’t order this,” Max began.

“On the house, courtesy of our _mutual friend_ back there,” James groaned, motioning to the other side of the room.

The two drinkers slowly swiveled their heads. _Santiago_. They couldn’t help but laugh, exchanging bewildered looks.

Cass watched as Mex hesitated, almost reaching for the drink. He reached out for a moment, before stilling and pulling his hand back.

“N-no thank you,” he laughed, face tato red. “I’ll pass for now.”

Again, she laughed at his embarrassment. “What’s wrong there, Mr. smooth operator? Somebody get you all flustered?”

“Something like that”, he confessed with a chuckle.

“For a second there I thought you had a legion outlook.”

“Huh?”

She paused, “You know, thought you played for the other side.”

That earned her a laugh. “Ma’am, I play every side…” he added with another wink.

Oh. _Oh,_ Cass thought. _Huh, explains a lot, I guess…_

Now it was Max’s turn to laugh at Cass’s embarrassment, watching as she stumbled over her words to apologize.

“Damn, no offense meant. Sometimes… s-sometimes I get so drunk, I don’t care who I share a bed with, so that’s fine with me,” she tried to reassure.

He waved off her comment, making it known he wasn’t insulted. He’d seen an opportunity to make her squirm, and it’d worked pretty well. Still, it was good to know she wouldn’t be too judgmental about his _bedroom habits_.

An awkward moment of silence passed between the two, before Cass tried to clear the air with a joke. “So… how come you turned poor Santiago down, playboy? Afraid of a little ass?”

He chuckled, "I get plenty of ass on my own, thank you very much. I just don’t like to pay for it.”

“Oh yeah, why’s that?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged, coolly taking a sip of whiskey, “guess I’m just a cheap bastard.”

Cass chuckled at that, before noticing his silence afterwards. There was a brief look in his eye, a quick uncomfortable shuffle. For a professional gambler, he might’ve shown a bluff. He coughed uncomfortably and rapped his knuckled against the bar.

“Garret, hit of jet please.”

Cass groaned, “Seriously, chems? Keep that shit away from me, and don’t talk to me when you’re chemed up.”

Max rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, I know. Look I’n not some chemed up raider fiend, I just like a little jet here and then to cut the edge… maybe some Day Tripper if I’m _really_ trying to have fun. But I steer away from anything harder.”

“Whatever you say.”

He signed, before verbally poking, “Everyone’s got their vices. Seems we’re both pretty fond of the bottle.”

She couldn’t help but tiredly chuckle at that. “Not sure if I chose it or it chose me. Dad ran a bar a long time ago… and it was a labor of love, mom said.” Taking another swig, she continued, “Used to call me ‘Whiskey Rose’ back West, before I punched enough people, so now they say it quieter, and when I’m not around.”

“…’Whiskey Rose’?”

“Yeah, on account of my name… and the blossoms on my cheeks when I drink too much.”

He chuckled at that, and she let him. _At least he turned away to hit that red inhaler_ , she noted, watching him do so through rolled eyes.

Eyes rolling, mouth billowing soft smoke, Max let out a breath. “Huh, woah…” Taking a moment, he closed his eyes before continuing, “I grew up in places like this. Dive bars, underground casinos and whore houses, loved every minute of it,” he joked.

“Thought you refused to pay for it?”, she asked. She’d caught him in his earlier admission, but here he was again, trying to play cool. “You sure talk a big game for someone too good for whoring.”

The look on his face told her he knew she’d seen through his bluff. “Hey, I see plenty of action, trust me,” he stammered defensively, “Strippers and prostitutes just ain’t my thing.”

She was about to crack another joke, something about him being scared of it, when she saw it in his face. Not quite fear, but discomfort. In his eyes, something wistful, sad.

He took a long gulp of whiskey before continuing. “I told you about _mi mama, s_ _í?_ Like I said, we didn’t have much, so she had to do what she could. She didn’t have much choice, couldn’t read, could barely write. But she was pretty, she-“. Taking another moment, he exhaled deeply, “Once upon a time Junktown was a gambling town, build around some huge casino. Now, the casino's been _long_ gone word goes… but gambling and whoring doesn’t like to go away. Despite the NCR’s best efforts to stamp it out, the town maintained a seedy underbelly. My mother was a working girl at one of the local dive bars. I saw the men coming and going from our trailer, heard the names people’d call her, seen her wipe away enough tears. I don’t know, the whole thing seems… kinda sad, I guess.”

That was a lot deeper than she was expecting from the courier. She’d thought she’d known his look, watched him flirt with enough women to assume he was just another poon-hound. And maybe he was, but there was something more behind it than she originally thought. Something honest, caring behind the trail of free love and broken hearts he left behind him.

She wasn’t sure what to think. Every time she thought she knew who she was traveling with, he’d always found some way to surprise her. Though, it seemed like he wasn’t trying to hide anything from her, he seemed genuine. The more time she spent with him, the more he let slip through the gunslinging ladykilling persona he seemed to present.


	10. A Night not Boring

He rubbed his eyes, the terminal screen sat blinking in front of him. Medical textbooks and notes strewn in neat, contained yet messy piles across the desk. Standing up for a much-needed stretch and a sip of water, he continued to drown in his own thoughts. _Ugh, I need a break from this,_ he sighed. _Still, better this than clinic work_.

A spiked mohawk poked into the tent. “Hey, Arcade. We got a patient here, needs stitches. Can you take care of it?’

“Of course, Julie,” he replied, voice wrought with feigned cheer, “I’ll get right to it.”

 _Ugh_ , he groaned, watching his boss leave. _So much for my quiet Friday night_.

Arcade stepped out into the frigid night air, pulling his lab coat closer around his shoulders. Weekend nights meant a lot of barfights, which meant more work for the doctors at Old Mormon Fort. Julie Farkas would hand him a doctor’s bag and point him to the lone man who sat hunched over a barrel fire, lukewarm beer pressed against his black eye. Busted nose, fattened lip, eyebrow in need of stitching, the poor guy was in pretty bad shape. _All that injury despite the combat armor_ , he couldn’t help but note, _too bad they went for his face._

“What seems to be the problem, sir?” he joked, approaching the patient.

The drunk muttered incoherently, something about “those bastards and their beards…”. _Whatever that meant._

Stooping down to examine the man’s face, Arcade couldn’t help but notice the man's blood type tattooed right above the bloodied brow. “How considerate,” he joked to himself, “wish all you guys would do that. Then we wouldn’t have to play ‘twenty questions’ with a bunch of drunks.”

The man chuckled at that, “Sorry you have to deal with my bullshit, doc.”

“It’s no problem,” Arcade sighed, disinfecting his cuts, “it's just that not all the Followers are ‘people persons.’ Besides, someone has to do research. Out of sight, out of mind. There are worse things one can be, though I do admit, it is a bit boring.”

Again, the man chuckled, taking a sip of his beer. “Well, making things less boring happens to be my specialty”, he slurred, motioning to his face.

He rolled his eyes, instead focusing on the man’s wounds. Just his luck of course, another drunk incapable of shutting their mouth. No matter now many times Arcade told his patient to keep still, he’d drunkenly continue to sip beer and ask questions.

Arcade didn’t know why, but he indulged the man. _Was he really that bored?_ Regardless, the man – Edward – seemed relatively intelligent for the average drunk, as he could hold a conversation about science and medicine, listened intently to his lecture on Latin. Still, of course, Arcade neatly dodged any and all personal questions about his life.

“You always deflect questions like this?”, Ed chuckled, “Come on, my guy, tell me _something_ about you.”

He sighed, pinching his nose. “Alright,” he began, “I’m thirty-ish. Well, late thirties. I was born… west of here. I was an only child and spent most of my life with my mother. My father died when I was young and I never got over it. Oh… and I only deflect questions to obfuscate my past association with a fascist paramilitary organization. I’m joking of course. I will deflect questions at any opportunity.”

In his chair, Edward blanched for a second, before busting out in laughter.

“You think that’s funny?” he asked, incredulously.

“Oh, it’s wicked funny. Because I’m a thirty-ish only child who was close with an overprotective mother. My father also died, and I also never got over it. And yes, I am on the run from a paramilitary group.”

Arcade was not expecting a response like that, and actually caught himself laughing. He decided he liked this patient well enough – well enough for a drunken idiot, that is. Their conversation continued. Ed asked about Arcade’s medical knowledge, told him his mother ran a clinic in the ‘ _shithole_ ’ he grew up in.

“How’s it going, Mr. Black”, asked Julie, approaching the fire.

“Just fine, thank you,” Ed groaned sarcastically.

“Wait, Julie, you know this man?”, Arcade asked.

“Yeah, he’s ok. He’s done some odd jobs for us in the past. Works down the street at the Silver Rush, but comes over on his down time.” Julie then laughed, “That is, when he’s not being thrown out of the Wrangler, apparently.”

Ed opened his mouth to defend himself, but Julie cut him off.

“This isn’t the first time this has happened, so I don’t want to hear it. Arcade, get him patched up and on his way,” she said, heading back to her tent.

Ed turned back to the tall doctor, “See…? Not boring.”

Once again, Arcade rolled his eyes and asked the merc to be still. The rest of the visit went by uneventful enough. Stitches done and nose gauzed, the doctor was ready to send him on his way.

“Thanks again, doc,” he slurred. Walking out of the Fort, he stopped, and turned back. “You know, you should come with me… I could use a smart doctor keeping me patched up.”

Arcade stopped, was he really considering going with this guy? Drunken fool that he was, he’d probably get himself killed without medical support. He sighed, “You’ve helped the followers in the past, so you can’t be entirely bad. As long as you keep working to help people around here get a fair share, sure, I’ll lend a hand.”

“Awesome,” the merc laughed. “Let me get my robot and I’ll be-“

“Wait, robot?” Sure enough, an eyebot came floating around the corner, seemingly cooing happy beeps at its drunken master. _Great_ , he thought, _how much more ‘less boring’ could tonight get…_


	11. Memories Faded

Max couldn’t believe his eyes. Snowfall in the Mojave. He hadn’t seen snow since Montana, all those years ago. Now standing before him, a would-be winter wonderland among the desert wastes; a cool oasis against the burning sands. A pristine pre-war ski lodge… run by super mutants.

Rex whined nervously at his feet.

He knelt down, giving the dog reassuring pats. “I know, boy,” he cooed. He was just about scared shitless himself. An entire colony of super mutants? Under any other occasion this place would be a deathtrap, but the mutant who greeted him at the gate seemed friendly enough, reassured him that they meant no harm. However, he was still from NCR, and the mutant, Marcus, was sure to mention that muties and NCR had bad blood. “We’ll be okay,” he prayed aloud.

Around him, hulking mutants wandered about like lost children. Some muttered incoherent ramblings to themselves, their lumpy, muscly flesh a sickly pale purple. Others, those of sounder mind meandered about at their own pace, carrying out various chores around the makeshift cattle ranch. Regardless, none of them seemed to pay the human and his dog any mind.

“Jimmy? Little Jimmy!” cried one of the mutants.

Max turned, only to see himself being rushed by a massive wall of purple muscle. He was fast, and his gun cleared leather, but it didn’t matter – the mutant was faster. Before he could fire, the beast was upon him, locking him in a crushing grasp. Surely, he was about to die.

The super mutant let out a piercing laugh. “My, my how’ve you’ve grown. So good of you to to come visit your grandma.”

“Uhh, who’s Jimmy?” was all the deflated courier could squeak out.

“Oh Jimmy, don’t you go being silly now!” it growled, “Let grandma give you some sugar!”

“Listen”, he wheezed, panicked, “you’ve really got the wrong guy…”

“I- Oh…” The mutant instantly shrunk back, releasing their grasp on the puny human. “Of course, dearie. How silly of me. I didn’t take my medicine yet today. Can I help you?”

Lying on his back, coughing and wheezing, Max took a second to catch his breath. He stared up at the mutant. It had been gardening before it had rushed him, tending to a small pack of bighorners. It had obviously been excited to see him for a moment. Now it loomed over him, defeated and slouched, almost embarrassed. Wearing a straw hat and makeshift skirt, had this really been some Jimmy’s grandma?

“Not now, boy, I’m busy.”

“Doc Henry? I’m here about this cyber-dog. The King told me to come to you.”

The old man turned from his chemistry set, eyes set on the dog. Without a word of acknowledgement to the courier, Henry bent down to examine the canine. Inspecting his sickly coagulated biogel, poking and prodding at his weathered mechanics. “Neural degradation,” he officially diagnosed, “bio-med-gel can only preserve a living brain for so long, replacement is eventually needed.”

“Well you’re in luck,” Max chuckled darkly, “I happen to have one such brain.”

The scientist raised an eyebrow, “That so?”

He knelt down next to his pack, fishing out a miniature cooler. “Yessir. The King told me you’d likely need one. So I went ahead and ‘found’ one myself.” Handing it over, he continued, “Old Lady Gibson in Novac had an old junkyard dog she was going to put down. Asked her to, uh… save the head…”

Max could only watch in disgust and mild fascination as the doctor got to work in removing the late dog’s brain, doing who knows what kind of sciencey stuff to it.

“Alright, let’s see here,” Henry began, watching the bioscanner readings load across his terminal, “neural pathways look good, definitely a breed of guard dog. Transplanting this brain into this dog here shouldn’t be a problem, though it may take him some time to adjust to his new brain."

Max exchanged a look with the cyber-dog. “Just do whatever you need to fix him.”

He sat perched atop a wooden fence rail, watching the bighorners graze on weeds. The super mutant from earlier had returned, eager to share her stories with a new face. In turn, Max listened intently, keen on taking his mind off his furry friend’s current operation. Sucking down a cigarette, he absorbed her ramblings about the wonders of the underground vaults. The mutant’s name was Lilly. Going on about her grandchildren, chiding the courier for smoking, and tending to her gardening, the nightkin seemed to get along like any other old woman. Max couldn’t help but laugh to himself, she was adorable – in her own deranged, hyper-muscular grandmotherly way…

Tossing his cigarette butt into the dirt, he turned to see an old doctor approaching. Only an hour had passed, yet here the man came, weary cyber-dog in tow. “Operation went well,” he supplied matter-of-factly, “though it may take him some time to adjust to the old scrapyard dog’s memories.”

Having hopped down from the fence and joined the pair, Max immediately knelt down before the dog. “You hear that, buddy? Doc says you’ll be ok!”

_The old dog barked happily, and Old Lady Gibson reached down, giving his ears some scratches. The sun blistered down as always, another quiet day in the Mojave. Laying beside his mama’s rocking chair, Rey decided to take a break from his junkyard patrol and join the old lady in the shade._

“You’re a good boy, Rex.”

_“Good boy, Rey.”_

“We’ll hit the road whenever you’re ready, ok bud?”

_“Whenever you’re ready, boy, there’s some extra kibble in your bowl.”_

“Good boy!” “ _Good boy.”_

“Ruff!” the dogs barked in unison.


	12. Memories Faded, Pt. 2

He pounded on the old shack door, taking a minute to survey his surroundings. An old burnt out Corvega torn apart for scrap, a malnourished brahmin calf tied to a tree, and a variety of desert cacti and shrubbery; not too far from the main road, well hidden, the little homestead would make for a nice place to rest. _This has to be the place,_ he thought, looking at all the signs of current occupancy.

Before he could knock again, the door swung open. Behind it, a familiar dried out ghoul. “Huh? Oh, its you,” he said, surprised. “Come to see if I haven’t died yet, or did you need something repaired?”

Knox couldn’t help but chuckle, remembering the deadpan sarcasm in his voice. The same sarcasm he’d had a week ago, even when he was facing possible death. Yet again, Divine Intervention had crossed his path with the courier’s. He’d merely stumbled upon what was clearly a deranged super mutant broadcast, and recalling the numerous reports from NCR farmers about nightkin raids, knew he had to investigate. To his surprise he found Max already there, along with that mercenary friend of his, Edward. The merc said he’d been sent by the Brotherhood of Steel to investigate a lost patrol, while the courier said something about being sent by a town of friendly super mutants. _Of course._

It’d taken all three of them to push their way up the mountain, cut through the army of angry nightkin. He still couldn’t believe how that whole ordeal had ended. Max had actually managed to talk down their self-appointed leader, convinced Ed to fix up her old robot. Then, just like that, they watched the bright blonde wig wearing mutant and her Ms. Nanny robot walk together into the sunset. Now, days later, Sam had come to check in on the ghoul said mutant had been keeping captive.

“The first one,” he laughed.

“Well then, come in I guess.”

He stepped into the quaint cabin. It wasn’t much; a few workbenches, a crate and some chairs to sit and eat, and an old mattress on the floor. By the look of it, the old man spent his days tinkering at his workshop, above all else.

Raul walked over to his shelves, “ _Quieres_ a drink? Pick your poison, I’ve got whiskey or tequila.”

“Whiskey, please”, the bounty hunter laughed, “its still a little early for tequila, for me.”

The ghoul shrugged and filled two shot glasses, one whiskey and one tequila, placing them on his makeshift table.

“So, how’ve you been holding up since Tabitha?” Sam began.

“Eh, I’ve been alright. Made it back here ok. Been tinkering on things here and there, the usual exciting boredom.”

“Makeshift repairman, huh? Decent skill to have.”

“Easy for you to say. It’s never gotten you captured by insane super mutants”. The ghoul briefly recounted his unfortunate capture at Black Mountain weeks back. His listening to Tabitha’s amusing broadcasts, naively seeking to repair their source when they one day fell silent.

“Well you know what they say about curiosity”, he joked, sipping his whiskey. “So, tell me more about yourself, Raul,” he asked, changing the subject.

“I’m and open book boss. Granted most of the book’s in Spanish and some of the pages have fallen out, but I’m an open book.” The old ghoul chuckled, “You got questions, boss? You mean you don’t know everything already?”

Again, Sam couldn’t help but chuckle. He loved the ghoul’s dry sarcasm, found himself clinging to the man’s every word. Despite the layer of humor over everything he said, his words still brought forth a certain wisdom, the kind acquired over centuries of existence.

The old ghoul sipped his tequila, reminiscing. He spoke of his days growing up outside Mexico City, on the simple ranch his family had called home. Recalled in detail the day the world ended, watching the bombs go off like blinding flashbulbs across the morning sky; how the world around him reduced itself to ash, the survivors’ chaos as they fought over remaining resources. Debating politics of new world and old, their discussion would come to an end. Raul had been to Arizona, seen the raiders there. While they could both agree the Legion was far from anything good, the ghoul found peace in this Caesar’s proven ability to keep the roads safe from raiders – something the NCR was no longer able to do. Needless to say, this proved to be a sore subject for the former soldier, who longed for the days when this new breed of NCR Rangers could hold the roads as well as the Desert Rangers of past.

Their discussion had continued late into the afternoon. Raul stood back up, moving to once again refill their glasses.

“You know, Raul?” Sam again began, “You interested in tagging along with me for a while?”

The ghoul paused, shrugging. “Anything’s better than staying here. Why not?”

“Anything else you’ve got a knack for, besides tinkering?”

“I’m not much use besides being a portable encyclopedia, really. I guess you could use me as a pack brahmin, but my knees aren’t so good any more,” joked the old man.

Sam chuckled, “Well I don’t believe that. Surely there’s something you’re good at?”

“That’s nice of you to say, boss, but I’m an old man. Not much use to anybody no more.” The wastelander frowned at his self-depreciation, so with a sigh he continued, “Time was, I was a pretty good shot with a pistol. I guess I’m still half-decent. These old bones aren’t much use in hand-to-hand fighting though. I can also do maintenance work on your stuff – I won’t have the supplies for a real repair job on the road, but I can keep your gear working longer.”

“See,” Sam said, “a gunslinger and a handyman, that’s something!” His voice softened, “You know, lots of older people are still valuable to their friends and communities.”

“Yeah? Maybe you can introduce them to me if we find them, because I’ve never met one.”

Memories flashed before Knox’s eyes, and he sighed. His father’s shack outside of Sactown, watching his old man work tirelessly day in and out crafting bullets. Thousands of rounds of ammunition, piled glimmering and tarnished in sorted ammo boxes. The smell of gunpowder, the sight of countless guns hanging from the walls, the continuous dry “ca-chunk” sounding from the reloading press. Watching a once proud road warrior shrivel and slowly lose his mind.


	13. Return to Sender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter set to 'Return to Sender" by Elvis Presley

_Return to sender, return to sender_

_I gave a letter to the postman, he put it his sack. Bright in early next morning, he brought my letter back._

The Tops sure lived up to its name, the pinnacle of pre-war entertainment and excitement. Slot machines chimed, dice rolled, dancers sang across the stage. Checking a rifle and a pistol at the front desk, Max made his way to the gambling floor.

_She wrote upon it,_

_‘Return to sender, address unknown. No such number, no such zone.'_

Locking eyes, the fox choked on his martini; turned pale white, like he was staring down a ghost. The courier closed the distance between him and the checkered suit, swiping a martini of his own from a passing waitress’s tray.

_We had a quarrel, a lover's spat_

_I write I'm sorry but my letter keeps coming back._

_So then I dropped it in the mailbox and sent it special D_

_Bright in early next morning it came right back to me…_

“Let’s keep this in the groove, hey? Smooth moves… baby smooth, ‘ya dig?” stammered the chairman.

“Seems like someone needs to work on their aim,” the courier chuckled darkly.

“Oh, I hit what I was aiming for,” he spat, “Guess you had brains to spare. Or are you just thick skulled?”

“You know why I’m here. I want the Platinum Chip.”

Benny chuckled, “Of course, that guy everyone’s been seeing go in and out of the Lucky 38, that was you? _Shit_.”

“Shit, indeed.” Max sipped his martini, eyeing Benny’s nearby bodyguards.

“What do you have in mind, here?”

“Two things are going to happen – you’re going to lose the bodyguards, and we’re both going to go up to your private room. You and me need to have a talk.”

“Alright then,” the chairman huffed, “Follow me.”

_She wrote upon it_

_Return to sender, address unknown_

_No such person, no such zone_

_This time I'm gonna take it myself and put it right in her hand_

_And if it comes back the very next day then I'll understand, the writing on it_

The elevator ride had been awkward, to say the least. Both of them next to each other, staring ahead, neither saying a word. The tension had been so thick they could have tasted it. Stepping out into the empty hallway, Max followed Benny into his room. A spacious place, it was. The door opened to a wide living area, complete with a full bar and several pool tables.

“Make yourself at home,” Benny joked. Upon closing the door behind them, he simply strolled behind the bar. Bending down, he fished for the ingredients to make another round of martinis. For this conversation, they would likely need it.

Max plopped down on a stool opposite the man, setting his hat down on the countertop, purposely exposing the jagged scars across his temple. He watched the chairman pull a bottle down from a shelf, pouring the vodka into small cocktail shaker.

“Prefer my martinis shaken, not stirred,” the man joked, trying to ease the air between them.

He couldn’t quite place it, but the joke was familiar, he’d heard it somewhere before.

“Now that you and me’s got some privacy”, the suited man continued, “I gotta ask – how is it that you’re still living?”

“I’ve always been lucky.”

“Luck is for losers, baby. Someone pulled strings.”

He said nothing for a moment, staring the other man down. “A securitron dug me up, and a doc in Goodsprings did the rest.”

Benny chuckled again, sighing, “House was onto me from word ‘Go’? Here I thought I was being so clever…” Putting the top on the shaker, and shaking it over his shoulders, he continued, “once you were vertical, how’d you track me down.”

Max chuckled, placing a cigarette between his lips. “For someone so professional, you left quite the mess…” Pulling a familiar silver pinup lighter from his pocket, he light the cig for Benny to see.

The other man’s eyes widened for a second, and he sighed again. “Look at me, a big-leaguer, or so I claim, making all the mistakes of an original loser…” He poured them their drinks, dropping an olive into each of their glasses.

The men sipped in silence, another moment of tension settling over them. Staring each other down, each dared the other to make the first move.

“So, kid,” Benny finally began, unbuttoning his coat, “how’s the wind going to blow on this one…?”

The courier watched the chairman loosen his jacket, undoubtedly to grab the handgun within. “That’s up to you,” he took a long pull of his cigarette, blowing the smoke in the other man’s face, “What does House want with the chip?”

Benny leaned over the counter with a chuckle. “Ding ding! Now you’re asking the right questions kid. It’s the house edge, baby – literally. It’s what Mr. House needs to stack the odds in his favor.” He took a quick sip of his drink, “Now what it does, I have no idea. But I do know it has something to do with the securitrons. Upgrades their hitting power, gives them heft. Might be slightly useful if you’re trying to defend the Strip from Caesar’s Legion or the NCR. Or both.” Running a hand through his perfect hair, he continued, “It’s not the chip that’s platinum, dig? It’s the data stored on it.”

The courier could only laugh to himself as the chairman continued to talk. Like the smooth talker he was, he was still trying to talk him into some kind of deal, pretending like nothing had happened between the two. Max knew his type, a conman who’d make excuses and lies to the bitter end. He took too long to reply to the chairman, silently blowing smoke from his nose. No matter what Benny offered, they both knew only one man would be walking away with the chip.

He flung his checkered coat aside, reaching for the gun under his armpit. A shot rang out, drilling through the wooden bar. The courier had drawn a concealed revolver from his jeans, putting a bullet in Benny’s side. Crying out and diving across the bar, the chairman topped the courier to the floor, their sending their pistols clattering across the floor.

A fist drives into the courier’s face, he drives his knee into Benny’s groin. Spotting the glint of Benny’s sidearm from under the pool tables, Max scrambled across the floor. Benny’s fist caught the back of his head before he made it to the table, sending him crashing against its side. Before Benny could pounce upon him again, Max reached up, fingers wrapping around a pool cue. Breaking it against the other man’s head, he jabbed the jagged end into his attacker’s side.

Seizing the opportunity, he found the gun, rolled around and fired. Two rounds caught Benny in the chest, and he collapsed. Both men lied there beside each other for a second, gasping for air. Pushing himself up to his feet, raising the very pistol he’d stared down weeks earlier, he fired. Two rounds to the head, just as before.

Max took a second to collect his things from the bar, fixing his cowboy hat and tucking his revolver back down his pants. As he walked to the door, about to tuck away Benny’s pistol as well, he stopped. Looking down at the silver gun in his hand, he hesitated and turned back around… and emptied the rest of its magazine into Benny’s brain. _Nope, not going to take any chances._

_Return to sender, address unknown_

_No such number, no such zone_

_Return to sender, return to sender_

_Return to sender, return to sender_

He stepped out of the casino and into the frigid night air. Picking up his guns from Swank, he’d been able to make it in and out without causing any problems. Strolled right in… and executed one of the most powerful men in Vegas in his own home, undetected. _Yep_ , he chuckled to himself, _still got it…_

Before he could celebrate his successful infiltration however, someone called out to him from the casino. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck and he stopped dead in his tracks. Fingers tightened around the butt of his pistols, he wasn’t going to be taken down by the fucking chairmen.

“Easy, sir,” the mustachioed man reassured. He didn’t appear to be a chairman goon, just another gambler, clad in a dark suit and matching fedora. Walking closer he continued, “the eyes of the mighty Caesar are upon you.”

“Wha-“

‘Your crimes against the Legion, including the death of the fearless Vulpes Inculta at the hands of your friends, are hereby forgiven. Caesar will not extend this mercy again.”

“Caesar?! How-“

“My lord requires your presence at his camp, at Fortification Hill. His mark will grant you safe passage through our lands,” The Frumentarii extended his hand, handing over a large brass coin, engraved with the mark of the legion bull.

“How did you-“

“Seek Caesar by way of Cottonwood Cove, south of Nelson. The Cursor Lucullus will be waiting.”

Without another word, the legion spy was gone, vanished into the night.


	14. Blurred Morality

“Welcome to the Silver Rush! New Vegas’s –”

“He’s cool, Simon. He’s with me.”

Spotting the tall doctor coming down the street, Ed waved him over. Arcade had agreed to accompany him on his jobs, so the merc had the man waved through security.

Arcade never would have imagined he would find himself playing personal doctor to an alcoholic mercenary. Yet here he was, practically getting the V.I.P treatment at the Silver Rush. Standing on the other side of the chain link fence, the doctor found himself before the main bar, gawking at the impressive display of energy weaponry.

“Please don’t drool on the merchandise,” Ed joked.

The doctor sputtered, “Sorry, it’s just… pretty impressive.”

“Yeah it is,” he chuckled, “you like what you see?”

Approaching the bar, he ran his eyes across the plasma display. Glowing green bulbs, shiny brass pistons, menacingly beautiful. Across the counter, various plasma rifles and pistols; behind the bar, a giant Winchester plasma caster. _That’s a lot of energy weapons,_ he thought to himself with a chuckle, _Brings back some interesting memories…_

“Oh yeah, memories of what?”

“I, uh…” Arcade stammered – _shit did I say that out loud?_ “…of hearing stories. About energy weapons,” he nervously continued They’re… pretty crazy. Yeah…”

Silence fell between them. Ed wasn’t buying it.

“Sorry, don't pay any attention to me," the doctor shakily laughed, “Just babbling. Nonsense really. Babbling nonsense.”

Eddie stared Arcade down, before electing to instead turn his attention to his cigarettes. He was clearly lying about something, but that didn’t matter for time being. _Everybody’s hiding something_ , the mercenary supposed. Weird that Arcade would deny knowledge of energy weapons… considering the top-of-the-line Glock plasma defender holstered at his hip. _If he had never been to the Silver Rush before, then where the fuck did he get it?_

Sweat poured down his face, the usual Mojave heat beat down on his back as the trekked across the barren wasteland. _This sun is killing me_ , Arcade complained, for the hundredth time.

“Shut up,” Ed deadpanned. _Arcade and his thinking out loud…_ The two were lugging a pair of weapons cases across the wastes, each no doubt filled with energy rifles, to an unknown buyer. As his companion, the good doctor had complained about the heat the entire walk.

They were approaching the supposed rendezvous point; ahead in the distance, a lone man stood, some bowl-cut blondie dressed in waster leathers. “Are you the Van Graff emissary?” he asked, as they drew closer.

“Maybe…” Ed again deadpanned.

“Don’t toy with me, boy. My men watched you come straight here.” He pointed to their cases, demanding, “Do you have what we requested or not?”

Ed simply chuckled. “Yep. Right here.” He then handed over his case, and motioned for Arcade to do the same.

“Good,” the mystery man said, packages in hand, “Then our business is concluded. Tell your superiors that we will contact them shortly.”

With that, the mercenary turned and walked away without another word.

“What on Earth was that?”

Ed lit a cigarette, “standard drop job,” he drawled.

“Wha- Who was that? Who’s _we_?” the doctor stammered.

“Dunno,” the merc shrugged, “they didn’t tell me, and I wasn’t paid to ask fucking questions.”

“That’s it? You just hand over a bunch of high-tech weapons to complete strangers?”

“If they pay me to.”

Arcade could not believe what he was hearing. “How could you not question that? What if those guys were raiders? Caesar’s Legion?”

The merc sighed an annoyed grumble, sucking down his cigarette, “Whatever they wanted the guns for, they’ll do anyways. Doesn’t matter where the guns come from.” He chuckled darkly, “People kill each other every day, why not make some caps off it where you can?”

“That’s insane!” the doctor argued, “You should be trying to help people, not profit off their suffering.”

The merc scoffed, laughing defensively, “Hey, fuck you, guy,” he joked, giving the other man a shove, “It’s not like I’m going out of my way to ruin other people’s day… most of the time. I just go where the caps are. The Van Graffs want to pay me to deal out some heat, kick some drunkard’s ass here and there? Gladly. The Followers want me to fix some equipment, transport some medicine for them? I’ll do whatever, so long as you pay up.”

“Well, surely our heroic Jason, the Argonaut, here has _some_ semblance of a moral compass?”

He paused, taking a long drag off his cigarette, thinking over his words. “An old friend used to say, ‘ _We all have to do questionable shit to survive the wasteland. Do some good here and there where you can, and maybe it’ll all even out somehow._ ’ Always thought he put it best…”

By the time they made it back to Freeside, it was well past nightfall. The streets sat mostly empty; the usual crowd of drunks huddled in the decrepit buildings to brace against the cold. Arcade assumed the Fort, however, would be an exception, most likely packed full of injured and sick. He was not looking forward to returning, as Julie would likely throw patient after patient his way to ease their current under-staffing.

Arcade groaned, starting to heading back to the Fort, only to be caught by the collar.

“Oh, no you don’t!” cried the merc, grabbing the doctor by his lab coat. “A job well done calls for celebration!”

“Wha-“ Arcade stuttered, “All you did was deliver a package! How is that worth celebrating?”

“So what? I got paid for it,” the merc continued, dragging the doctor across the street from the Silver Rush. “I’m meeting a friend at the Wrangler, and you’re coming,” he demanded.

Before Arcade could finish his protests, Ed had already dragged him through the front door. The smell of smoke and booze filled his nose, loud slot machines assaulted his ears. Again, he groaned. _I’m at least half a foot taller than him_ , Arcade cursed, _why do I let him boss me around, again?_

Edward led the taller man to his usual table, where another woman was already seated. “Arcade,” he began, “meet Veronica.”

Ed didn’t know why he ever thought this would be a good idea. _Veronica and Arcade in the same room,_ he should’ve known better. Of course, they had ganged up against him, together complaining about his various drunken antics; Arcade was glad to have a partner to complain to, and Veronica had happily sided against him out of playful spite. Deep in the bottle, face flushed red, he could only sit back annoyed as his companions shared laughter at his expense.

“...and I know I’m the one with the power fist, but _he’s_ the one who actually suggested trying to _punch_ the deathclaw!” Veronica laughed, recalling one of their friend’s drunken escapades.

Arcade scoffed, not knowing whether to laugh or hang his head in shame. “What? I knew he was challenged, but I wasn’t aware Ed was downright suicidal, as well,” he joked.

The merc took a swig from his bottle, before interrupting. “Glad I can be so entertaining,” he sighed, “Good to know every time I need a hand, you assholes are there to laugh at me instead…”

That earned him a laugh from his companions, watched as they nodded their heads in pretend agreement.

“Alright, I need another fucking drink. See you bitches in a few…” with that, Ed left the table and headed for the bar.

A moment of silence passed between the doctor and the scribe; both left at the table, neither quite sure what to say to the other.

“So,” Veronica began, “You’re the poor doctor that has to patch Ed’s dumbass up every time he gets thrown out of this place?”

Arcade chuckled at that, “It would appear so.” He sighed, “Appears I wasn’t quite content tending to his black eyes… now I’ve signed up to scrape him off the floor after every near-death experience he goes and throws himself into.”

She laughed, “Know the feeling, been there,” she joked.

Another silent moment passed, the two silently sipping their drinks.

Veronica began again, “I know we’ve been giving him a lot of shit, but what do you really think about Ed?”

Arcade hesitated, “I’m… not sure. He seems to do good work for the Followers, but also likes to pick fights and do dubious jobs for caps. He doesn’t seem too bad for a mercenary, but I wish he’d actively seek out to do more good.”

“Hmm, guess that’s not a bad way to put it,” she said to herself. “Like you said, he’s not bad for a mercenary. He’s capable with lasers and terminals, very ‘colorful’ with his vocabulary… he can he entertaining.” She giggled, then sighed, growing serious. “Still,” she continued, “he’s helped me find tech and data for the Brotherhood. Listened to me ramble about them and their elder, actually agrees that the Brotherhood should be doing more to help others… I never know what to make of him. One minute he’s running medicine for the Followers, the next he’s happily taking caps from people like the Van Graffs…”

Not wanting yet another awkward silence to fall between them, the two ordered another round of drinks. Which progressed into another after that. Forcing themselves into conversation, the two introverts found each other pleasant to talk to. Arcade was happy to listen to Veronica’s hopeful dreams of the Brotherhood actually using the tech it hoards to help others, discussing his own hopes for a brighter future with the Followers. Veronica, meanwhile, was fascinated by Arcade’s expansive knowledge of medicine and Latin. The two of them rambled on about their energy weapons, debating their preference for plasma and lasers, respectively.

Neither of them noticed, too preoccupied with their conversation, but Ed had been gone for quite a while. They finally, noticed him coming downstairs with one of the girls. _Typical Ed_. Coming back to the table, he rejoined his friends. “Glad to see you nerds getting along.”

“Thought you just went for another drink?” Veronica teased, annoyed.

“Yeah, well, I brought the drink upstairs. Enjoyed it with some company,” he deadpanned. “You know maybe you two should take those sticks out of your asses and do the same.”

Veronica and Arcade stared at each other, both embarrassed.

“Oh, come on,” teased Ed, “quit being a bunch of prudes. They’ve got plenty of pretty girls here, even some pretty boys, Arcade.”

Arcade chuckled awkwardly, “While, I appreciate the sentiment. I’d rather keep my sex life to myself, thank you.”

Ed rolled his eyes, “What about you, V?” he asked.

“N-no thank you,” she stuttered. “Definitely what Arcade said!”

The merc laughed at the look on their faces. After how they’d laughed at his expense earlier, Eddie figured he’d turn the tables, do what he did best – give others a hard time.

“Laugh all you want, Eddie,” Veronica recovered, sly smirk spreading across her face, “you just come here because you can’t get any without paying for it…”

Again, the merc laughed. Full bodied, He doubled over slightly in his seat, both in surprise and amusement. “Ouch,” he laughed in mock offense, “my poor fragile ego!” He then leaned over, giving Arcade a playful elbow nudge, and laughed, “She’s probably right, though…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Classes have started back up again, which means my writing might slow down a bit.
> 
> I'll still keep these coming, thanks for bearing with me. Let me know what you think of the characters so far.


	15. Still Here

Dawn rose on the desert; the morning sun crested the nearby mountaintops. A warm glow washed over the darkened encampment, exposing the broken bodies to the blood-red sky.

The Legion had come in the night, three waves of raiding parties lead by dogs. Barking, howling, crying calls of war, the slaver dogs descended on the camp like meat ripe for the hunt. Bitter Springs should’ve been an easy target, nothing to protect the refugees but an understaffed company of NCR grunts. It was a miracle the camp had received reinforcements in the days prior. The first recon sniper and bounty hunter camped out below Coyote Tail Ridge, Divine Intervention.

With the sun starting to rise, the soldiers could begin mopping up the various legion corpses strewn about. They threw the bodies in a pile down the ridge, tended to the wounded. They had been lucky, despite the Legion’s massive numbers, the Khan refugees had seen minimal casualties. Instead, wave after wave, the legionaries were cut down in a hail of lead.

As the rest of the soldiers at camp started dragging bodies down the hill, Boone found himself heading further up the mountain. He needed a minute to himself. He’d been the first to spot the Legion, had been so sure he would face his coming judgement. Yet here he was, still at Bitter Springs. Still drawing breath.

He lit a cigarette, staring out across the desert. He had known what was coming, had awoken Knox with in the dead of night, urging him to run. He had never wanted to get the other man involved in his mess, didn’t want to risk causing yet another death by allowing him to get close – as the universe had a way of punishing his loved ones for his own sins.

Hearing the crunch of boots behind him, he turned. Knox had come up the hill, likely seeing the sniper sitting there alone. _If he knew what was best for him, he’d leave_ , he thought. _Like he should’ve done this morning, left me to my fate._

The soldier sat down next to the silent man, back against the rock. Neither facing the other, their eyes instead scanning the distant sands.

A long moment passed, before Boone finally began. “Thought my time had come,” he said, voice wavering, “For a minute there, everything made sense. I could feel the end coming. I was ready for it. Now…I’m back where I was.”

Sam had never seen Boone this vulnerable, this broken. The man never seemed to have emotion, a nihilistic void that communicated through bemused grunts. But here he sat slouched, defeated, clutching his rifle between his knees. Afraid. He’d been so sure they were going to die, had warned him to run – that the Legion raiding party was too big, even for them. Picking his words carefully, Sam continued. “You underestimated us,” he deadpanned.

The sniper huffed, “Guess I did. Guess I figures whatever we could handle, this time the Legion was going to send more.” He sighed deeply, finally turning to face his friend, “I should’ve died here a long time ago. When I spotted the legionaries today, I thought I understood. Things were finally going to even out. But I’m still here and nothing’s changed.”

“I was never going to let you die, Boone.”

“I don’t mean disrespect. It’s a hell of a thing having someone with your ability looking out for me. But I’ve come to believe there are things nobody can stop. I thought for sure that’s what we’d come finally come up against today.”

“You won’t die, Boone. Not any time soon,” Sam chuckled darkly. “Dying is too easy. Having to live with what you’ve done…” Memories flashed before his eyes. Those he could not save. The pained shrieks of tortured carvaners. His father’s eyes, unrecognizing. “that’s your punishment.”

Beside him, Boone stilled. “Huh. I never thought of it that way. Always expected something… more final. But maybe it is.” He sighed deeply, hanging his head, “I don’t know what to do about all of this.”

“You can’t take back what you’ve done. But you’re still here, all you can do is learn from your mistakes. Walk a better road from here.”

Another long moment passed, before Boone chuckled. “One less Legion raiding party running loose now. Never a bad thing, you can take my word for that.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes, “Still feels like I’m living on borrowed time. But I don’t see any reason not to take a lot more of these sons of bitches with me. You got a point. There’s still some things I can do before all this is over.”

Knox reached out, patting the sniper on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”


	16. The Silus Treatment

They stared at him from behind the one-way mirror. Bound to a chair, the subdued man in the adjacent room had not stopped spouting empty threats. They were almost tempted to gag the Legion centurion, had they not actually needed him to talk.

Lt. Boyd spoke up, “This one’s going to be tough to crack. Silus is one of the Legion’s finest soldiers, cunning and calculated. We’ll have to be careful about how we go about this."

Beside her, Knox grunted. He’d love to beat this Legion scum into pulp himself, but they needed him alive. Imposing and menacing as he was, Sam specialized in permanently silencing legionaries, not making them talk.

“Where are we going to find someone tough enough to beat him senseless _and_ smart enough to play mind games with a seasoned spy?"

“You brought me here to pummel some Legion fuckhead for you? Fuck yeah, I’d be happy to help! For a price, of course.”

Sam rolled his eyes. _Fucking mercenary_ , he thought. “It’ll be a lot more than just that, believe me. If it was that easy, I’d have done it myself already.”

Edward sucked down a cigarette as Sam told him about the job. Their prisoner wasn’t any old grunt, apparently they’d captured some top brass. A spy, strategist. They’d need to get into his head to break him.

Sam watched Ed flick away his cigarette butt, reaching around to fish a carton of Mentats from his pack. “The fuck are you doing?” he asked.

Ed chucked in response. Our mutual sticky-fingered friend, Max, taught me a thing or two about setting up a good con.” Popping some of the chalky red pills in his mouth, he continued, “Preparation is key. In this case – research. My buddy Arcacde over there is going to teach me some crash course Latin.”

Boyd opened the door, letting the mercenary into the room. Though unarmed and standing only 5’7”, he’d break this Legion dog no matter what it took. The door closed behind him, locking audibly.

“What an ugly little worm you are,” Silus spat, “What pile of excrement did –”

The legionary’s head snapped backwards, and Ed felt the man’s nose break under his knuckles. “Shut the fuck up,” he growled.

Silus opened his mouth to speak, only to be hit again.

“I said shut the _fuck_ up,” he growled again, punching Silus in the mouth. “The NCR may be paying me to make you talk,” he leaned in closer, “but I don’t give a fuck about what they want.” He looked the man in the eyes, sticking a finger in his face. “See, unfortunately for you, you and I take our orders from a higher power.”

‘Wha-“

“ _Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes._ We are both slaves to _Caesar’s_ law. And you are in violation. You’ve become a liability…”

“No, listen!” Silus panicked, “ _Caesar’s_ secrets are safe with me. I –”

Another punch. “Shut the fuck up!”

“I’ve told them nothing. They’ve gotten nowhere. I – “

Another punch. “If you were weak enough to be captured by the NCR then you are weak enough to break. You’re too dangerous to be left alive.” With that, Ed let him have it, pummeling him with hunch after punch to the face and gut.

“Woah, easy there!” Lt. Boyd called, re-entering the room. “You’re supposed to rough him up a little, not kill him.”

“Lieutenant, this man is an agent of the Legion on a mission to kill me,” the beaten centurion gasped.

“My, we have an active imagination today, don’t we?” she chuckled. “From the sound of it, you two are becoming fast friends. When my friend here is done with you, you’ll be drinking your food through a straw.” Motioning him to continue, she once again left the room.

Silus dropped his head, huffing a defeated sigh. “You have to let this go,” he begged, “I’ll disappear. No one will ever see me again. That was always the plan.”

“So in addition to treason, you’re also a deserter,” Ed snarled, chuckling darkly.

“it’s not like that!” the prisoner protested, “I’m dead no matter what I do. If I’d killed myself then I would’ve been murdering one of _Caesar’s_ greatest soldiers. Either choice would be a betrayal to the Legion, as I see it.”

“That’s between you and the mighty _Caesar_. All I know is that, unlike you, I follow my orders." He cracked his knuckles loudly, readying another punch, " _Legum servi sumus..._ ”

The centurion let out a pathetic laugh of incredulity. “I’ve done everything _Caesar’s_ asked of me, and this is how I am repaid? With assassination?” He shook his head, “I ambushed countless NCR patrols, and wiped them out so our operatives could move freely. I waited for him to dispatch us for three days , never questioning why the ‘headaches’ he complained of would hinder his ability to command. I haven’t breathed a word about the officer planted here – he continues to radio intelligence to _Caesar’s_ camp nearly every night. I’ve proven my loyalty. All you’re doing is killing a loyal soldier. If that’s _Caesar’s_ policy, then I say his empire will crumble.”

Ed took a second to absorb the man’s exasperated plea. Turning to face the mirror, he smugly called out, “Is that good enough for you? Or do want some more?”

“No. NO!” Silus cried, realizing he’d been played. “You bitch! Nothing I’ve said will –”

Another punch. Teeth clattering across the floor.


	17. Heartaches by the Number

She didn’t know what pooled hotter in the pit of her stomach; the whiskey, or her anger. She’d been hopelessly fucked over, and she didn’t have anyone to punch for it. It had taken some time for the realization that she was no longer chained to the Mojave Outpost to sink in, so she’d been content in simply following the courier and his aimless wanderings. A couple weeks' passing, however, found this newfound freedom heavy to bear. Cass was finally free of her dead caravan, free to wander the wastes; freedom that those under the late caravan’s employ would never again have, their lives senselessly cut short. Hoping to cross her heart for her dead, she’d asked her partner to make a detour, to track down the remains of Cassidy Caravans.

There had been nothing left. A long rotted brahmin carcass, still strapped to its wagon. Scattered broken boxes, half buried by the blowing sands. Blackened scorch marks, burned into the asphalt. No bodies were left, nothing of value had been stolen. Whatever had ambushed her namesake, had done so for no discernable reason.

So here she sat, drowning her sorrows at the bottom of a bottle. Another pair of weary wanderers washed up at the 188. Huddled under the overpass, seeking shelter from the unforgiving sun, the duo sat cross-legged in the dirt, backs against the cool concrete.

“Fuck…” Cass mumbled, taking a swig of whiskey.

“Fuck,” Max replied. Their unspoken language – a mutual exchange of frustration and condolences. “Any ideas?”

She leaned back, eyes closed, feeling the whiskey wash over her. Pulling her hat down over her face, she rubbed at her eyes, “Fiends maybe? Hell if I know, but they obviously weren’t after the cargo.”

Max huffed, “Well whoever it was, we’ll make this right, Cass.”

From anyone else, that would’ve sounded like a simple platitude. However, this wasn’t anyone else – this was the courier, the guy who’d walked into one of the biggest casinos in Vegas and iced its boss right in his own home. The courier who’d literally risen from the dead, tracked a man across the Mojave for putting a bullet in his skull. Cass exhaled deeply, breathing fire out her nose; trying to calm her fury, she hummed in approval.

Whiskeys finished, the two laid basking in the shade, trying to make the best of an otherwise shitty afternoon. That was – until someone roughly kicked Max’s boot.

“Hands up, cowboy,” the stranger drawled, “you’re being robbed.”

Eyes snapping open, hands flying for their guns, the pair jumped to attention. Hovering above them, a menacing mercenary, custom laser rifle slung over his shoulder. Max’s old friend from Primm?

The merc cackled manically, pointing at the frightened courier. “You should’ve seen the look on your face, man! Too classic.”

“Fuck you!” Max sputtered, laughing despite himself. Rising to embrace the other man, he continued, “Always gotta scare the shit outta me, huh?”

Cass watched, eyes rolled, as the two idiots caught up. When the jackass merc extended his hand to her, she brushed him off. “Not in the mood for bullshit.”

Ed scoffed. “Ouch,” he laughed, “tough crowd.”

Max shot him a look. _Cut it_ , he glared. “Come on, Cass,” he said, turning back to the cowgirl, “How about we grab another drink? Me and this asshole got some catching up to do.”

Over another round, Max recounted their day’s journey – finding the remains of her caravan, letting the woman pay her respects. Not wanting his sympathy to come across as pity, Ed bought the woman a drink for her troubles. For the trio, that round turned to several, allowing them to slip into a lighter mood. Max and Ed swapped jokes and old stories, and Cass chuckled along from around the lip of her glass.

“Alright,” Cass eventually interrupted, “I’ve gotta take a piss. I’ll be right back.”

Watching the woman leave, Ed chuckled. “Damn,” he laughed, “that woman can throw down some whiskey…”

“You don’t know the half of it…” Max joked back.

The merc leaned in closer, “So what _is_ the story between you two?”

“I told you,” he insisted, “we just watch each other’s backs on the road… like we did. Nothing like that between me and Sharon.”

Ed stiffened, putting his drink down. “Cass?” he asked, “As in… Sharon Cassidy…”

“Yeah, why?”

Again the merc leaned in closer, lowering his voice. He took a long gulp of his booze. “If she’s the Sharon Cassidy I’m looking for…. then I’m pretty sure the Van Graffs want her dead.”

The courier paled, “What?!”

“They haven’t told me why, and I haven’t asked any questions, but my bosses want me to find her for them. Pretty sure they want to take her out.” He swallowed hard before continuing, “Her caravan, you mentioned… no bodies, scorch burns… the Van Graffs have been paying some of us to hit caravans, no questions asked… if her men were really turned to _ash_ …”

“What the _fuck_ ” Max breathed.

“Look, I don’t know if I hit that caravan or not… but I did help them take out some competition…” the merc sighed heavily, “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know, wasn’t personal.”

“God _dammit_ ,” he swore, _“Hijo de puta._ ” Rubbing his temples, he sighed, “The Van Graffs, then? Who else was involved?”

“I don’t know,” Ed confessed. A moment passed before he continued, “Look, guy, maybe there’s something we can do to make this right?”

The former thief took a long sip of his drink. _My days of big scores are long behind me_ , he thought. _But if it does right for a friend…_

“Those fuckers! The Van fucking Graffs?” Cass was storming, taking her anger out on some old burnt out barrel. Delivering kick after kick, she watched the rusty thing dent and cave under her heel. “I’m going to get some extra ammo, a few bottles of whiskey, then show them how Cassidys settle accounts.”

“Easy, Cass,” Max warned, watching her destructive fury from afar, “The Van Graffs sell the most powerful weapons in the Mojave. We go after them, guns blazing, and we’ll end up puddles of glowing goo, ourselves.”

“So what, then?” she spat, “I just can’t sit here and do nothing!”

The courier chuckled, rubbing his chin in deep thought. “I’m thinking a little heist, collecting some _research_ …”

“What now?”

“We find some evidence that they torched your shit, and give it to the NCR. Let them take down their business.”

“NCR?” she asked, incredulously, “Are you out of your fucking mind? That’d take years… and with the war with the Legion, no way they’re going to waste their time running up the Van Graffs!”

“Think about it,” he insisted, “the damage the NCR could do would last much longer than any suicide mission of ours. That shit would follow them back West, fuck up the rest of their business elsewhere…”

She shook her head, running a hand over her face, “And how the hell would you get this ‘evidence’ of yours?”

“I’m a professional,” he laughed, “and I’ve got an inside man with the Van Graffs – my buddy Eddie. I slip into their store posed as a regular customer, get Ed to cause come kind of distraction, and I sneak into their back room. Big important business people like them gotta have important papers somewhere, right?” He sighed, “Look, if I manage to scrounge up some evidence will you at least consider it?”

A moment passed, and she sighed. “Fine, if you can poke around the Van Graffs.” Sticking a finger in his face she continued, “But if I see them go into their little store? I’m going to start shooting, no matter what you find.”

A shit-eating grin plastered itself across the courier’s face. “Just leave it to me, ma’am,” he laughed.


	18. Troubles by the Score

Another day, another drink at the Wrangler. So it goes.

Yet again, Cass found herself perched at the bar, pouring out her pockets to the Garret twins. Downing her whiskey anxiously, she couldn’t help but throw another glance towards the bar’s cracked front window. She wanted to be the one going into the Silver Rush, giving that Gloria bitch what she deserved. However, Max had insisted he go in alone, idiot he was, leaving her to sit helpless across the street.

Groaning, head in her hands, she knocked against the bar top, signaling for another drink. She hadn’t heard any gunshots yet, which she guessed was a good sign. Still, she couldn’t help but worry. Something loudly slapped the bar in front of her, snapping her back to attention.

A large stack of papers. Max had already returned, proud smile across his face. “Ta-da!” he sang, slipping onto the barstool beside her, “Plan worked like a charm.”

Cass picked up the pile of documents. “Holy shit”, she began, incredulous, “all of this has to do with my caravan?”

The smile fell from the courier’s face, replaced by an awkward glance to the floor. “Uh, actually… I have no idea,” he confessed, “I just cracked the safe and took everything.

“What the fuck? You couldn’t read through any of this shit?”

His embarrassment grew further. “I, uh –”

“Don’t you know how to fucking read?! Why not just take what you were looking for?” she joked. The other man didn’t respond, and realization washed over her. “Oh.”

“Hey, hey! Fuck you,” Max began, defending himself. “I do to _know_ how to read… I just _can’t_.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Whatever you say…”

A moment passed before Max spoke up. “I saw one of those Follower doctors when I was a kid, once we moved to the Hub. Guy told me I was born with a reading problem, that letters and numbers jump around in front of my eyes when I try to read them.” Another moment, and he sighed, “Growing up, teachers would scream at me. Eventually, they stopped trying to teach me, so I gave up learning for a long time.” He chuckled darkly, “Hell, I didn’t learn the alphabet until I was in my teens…”

Cassidy didn’t know how what to say to this guy. Every time she thought she had him figured out, that he was just some playboy or some idiot, he’d prove her wrong; always seemed to fit the description, but had his own story behind it.

Instead, she turned her attention to the papers in her hands. Over another drink, she rifled through them, most unrelated business dealings or expense reports. Only one stood out – and she froze as she read it: a contract from Alice McLafferty buying Van Graff goons, targeting her caravan by name.

“McLafferty,” she snarled, “Crimson Caravan is taking out their competition… of course, I should’ve known.

Max didn’t say a word, just downed his drink. “Come on,” he chuckled, rising from his stool, “looks like I’ve got more papers to steal…”

The ranger sat at his desk, flipping through the papers in his hands. Pulling of his aviators, he pinched his nose in disbelief. “This is…” Ranger Jackson muttered, “this explains a lot of the lost caravans. I thought it was Legion work, but…”

“Can you get this to the right people?” Cass interjected forcefully.

“I can, if you make me a promise,” Jackson began, “I need you to promise you won’t take revenge on Gloria or Alice. If you do, then your case is over, and we can’t see that justice is done.” He saw the fire in the caravanner’s eyes, the burning need vengeance, and he wouldn’t allow it. “I know some things are hard to let go, Miss Cassidy, but you and your courier friend need to understand that.”

Cass sighed heavily, hanging her head. “Yeah… sure. No problem,” she drawled, “Just get that where it needs to go.”

“I can promise that,” he looked her in the eyes, “but what happens after… not even God himself could move the Congress in or out of session. And this… this is a tricky matter.” He shook his head, “I’ll do what I can – those folks that got killed need to be answered for.”

With that, the cowgirl solemnly nodded, and left the ranger’s office. She found herself plopping down at her usual barstool before she even knew it, almost as if she was on auto-pilot. Seemed no matter how hard she tried to escape it, she always came crawling back to the Mojave Outpost. She’d held off on getting revenge for her torched caravan, and this is what she had to show for it; promises of maybes and hopefully so’s. No justice yet delivered, still miserably drinking away her caps at the outpost bar – a month had passed, and nothing had changed.

“You ok?” the courier asked from the barstool beside her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He had taken the liberty of ordering her a whiskey while he waited for her to finish with Jackson, knew she’d likely need the liquid comfort.

“Hard to say what I feel right now. I guess its settled… for now.” She sighed deeply, drinking the whiskey Max handed her, “I think the NCR back West, when riled, is going to be the worst enemy the Van Graffs and the Crimson Caravan ever had. They’re all so mired in procedure and paperwork out there, the kind of evidence we gave is going to be worse than shooting them.”

Max hummed in agreement, sipping his own drink.

“That was some tricky political maneuvering,” Cass continued, “but worth it, even if it takes a few years… I think that settles accounts with me – and my men” She then turned to face her friend, “I appreciate you going out of your way to help me with this. Thanks.”

“No problem Cass,” he reassured, “always happy to steal from assholes.”

She raised an eyebrow, eyeing him. “Where did you learn to crack a safe like that, anyhow?”

He chuckled, “Years of practice.”

“That so?” she teased, “Maybe I should turn you in to Jackson, too. You got a bounty on you somewhere?”

Again, he simply chuckled, “Maybe…”

“So, what?” she began, incredulously. “Now you’re going to tell me I’ve been traveling with a master thief.”

“Nothing like that,” Max laughed. He put his hand on her back, between her shoulders, using his other hand to gesture out in front of him. “I just wander the wastes, go from place to place. And if I happen to be good at stealing from those that piss me off along the way, then who cares, right?”

“Mhm” she hummed, “whatever…”

He retreated back into his own seat, bringing his hand away from her shoulder. “Besides,” he continued, holding up something for her to see, “its only stealing if you notice it.” In his hand, her pendant necklace.

Quickly grasping her throat, she found her necklace gone. “Slippery son of a _bitch_ …” She didn’t know whether to laugh or knock his teeth out. All this time he claimed to be a simple courier, promised her he wasn’t trying to rope her into any weird shit; yet he’d somehow failed to mention he was apparently a wanted criminal. “So what, you get your rocks off stealing from poor unsuspecting folk?” she spat.

Max deflated, no longer proud of his sticky fingers. “It’s not like that,” he defended himself.

“Then what is it like, then?” she growled, snatching her pendant back.

He took a deep sigh, and paused for a moment before downing his drink. Turning to her, he lowered his voice, “After my mom died, I didn’t know what to do. I was still a kid, and the only thing I was good at was gambling, so I turned to that for survival. Almost got killed in an alley one night after I cheated the wrong man at a game of poker, only to get my ass saved by another gambler. Said his name was Leland, Leland Osgood. One of his many names. Guy was a traveling gambler, con man – said he could use someone as good at cards as me. He took me under his wing, taught me to read, he—he was almost like a father. But he lead me down a dark road, also taught me to cheat, steal. He said I was his ‘lucky charm’, for a long time we went from place to place stealing from folk – at first it was people who deserved it: greedy brahmin barons, no-good raider scum, hot-shot gamblers willing to risk it all… until it wasn’t any more… Eventually had enough when he stabbed me in the back during our last failed score, and went my own way, turned to more legit gambling and courier work…”

She sat silently, taking in his story. “Where is this guy now?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice teary. “Last I heard he went full bandit, robbing caravans and traders. Our last job went south, cost him an eye. Allowed me to see him for what he really was…” He sighed, “I hope he’s dead, he reminds me of the asshole I never want to be again. At least whenever I do steal now, I give that money to others, and I make sure it’s from those that deserve it… Everyone has to do bad shit to survive, it’s the wasteland. But I’ve always believed that, if you do a little good along the way where you can, then… I don’t know, maybe it’ll all even out in the end, somehow.”

Cass didn’t knowhow to respond. Once again, the courier had taken her completely by surprise, surpassing her expectations of him. She’d so readily seen him as a greedy gambler, another drifter who wandered from place to place leaving a trail of broken hearts and bodies behind him. Instead she found something unexpectedly soft, regretful. A lone wanderer stuck in the guilt of his past, just hoping to have a good time and help others where he could. Something about that felt… more relatable, more sympathetic than she’d previously seen in him.

Now she reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not a bad guy, Max. I’ve seen that. Doing questionable shit to survive, but doing good where you can – that’s all you can ask for out of someone in this world. For a thief, you’re not a total dick. Not like that father-figure of yours, from the sound of it.”

“Thanks,” he laughed gratefully, rubbing his eyes. “Like I said, I do try my best. But Leland turned out to be an eviler bastard than I could’ve imagined, made me into something horrible like him.”

“And like you said, here’s hoping he’s dead. ” Cass replied, waving the bartender over for another round.

Max chuckled at that, reminiscing. “Crazy fucker was always talking about the score of his dreams – some fairytale casino south of the Hub, a glimmering relic of old world riches untouched by the bombs. The Sierra Madre, where you could begin again… I hope he finds his fucking madre, and I hope the _puto chokes on it._


	19. Bridges Burned, Family Found

A knock sounded from the door. “Veronica? You ok in there?”

She rolled over in bed, turning away from the doctor’s voice. She couldn’t face Arcade, not after this. Not after what she’d caused.

Another knock came from the door, and she heard it push open. She could hear the footsteps near the bed, feel the mattress sink as someone sat beside her. A hand reached out, lying comfortingly across her shoulder.

She barely suppressed another sob, “I’m sorry, Arcade,” she began, “This is all my fault. I should’ve seen it coming.” He must hate her; those Followers, his friends and companions, senselessly murdered. All because she’d come to them, bringing the wrath of the Brotherhood with her like a plague.

“Don’t blame yourself V., its not your fault.” The doctor whispered tender reassurances, continuing to rub her shoulder. “Ed told me what happened, that you tried to join the Followers… I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be here, Arcade,” she sniffled, “I can’t risk it happening again. It’ll be better that way, for everyone. You’ll be safer without me.”

Arcade sighed. “You don’t control what the Brotherhood did. I don’t blame you, V. No one else in the Followers does, either.” He scooted over, moving closer to her. “Ed told me everything. You stood up to the elder, did everything you could to make them change for the better… and they refused. You did everything right, Veronica. You did all you could.”

“And look what it got me… I’ve got no one now. Anyone close to me is in danger. The Brotherhood will do anything to keep its secrets.”

“Don’t let them control you. You’re an incredible woman, capable of doing so much to help so many. I know you want what’s best for the Mojave, and you can’t let the Brotherhood rule your life through fear… if you still want to help the Followers, we’re here for you… Ed and I, we’re here for you.”

Tears starting to stream down her cheeks, Veronica sat up and pulled her friend into a hug. “Thank you.”

The door opened and closed again; heavy boot falls entered the room. “Well,” Ed joked, “glad to see everyone’s getting along.”

“Where have you been?” Arcade snapped, “Leaving her alone?”

The mercenary simply gave the doctor the finger and made his way to the bed. In his hands, a large duffle bag. “Hey, V.” he began, “I’m… I’m sorry how this turned out. I’ve been there, know what it’s like to leave family behind. When I left Boston, I left my mom behind. But I had to – made too many enemies, they’d’ve killed her had I stuck around… So I had to leave, start over alone. For a long time I feared I wouldn’t have nobody ever again, but I met friends that proved me wrong. Family isn’t blood. If those fucking Brotherhood shit dicks wont change, won’t accept you for who you are – then fuck ‘em. You gotta do what’s best for you. And I’m here for you, always will be.”

Her eyes welled with yet more tears, and she now pulled the other man in for a hug.

Ed cleared his throat awkwardly, holding the duffle out towards her. “Like I said, uh… I’m really sorry how shitty this turned out to be. I know its not much, but – well, you always said – um, I…” He shook his head and thrust the bag into her hands, “I had my buddy Max help me get you something, figured he’d know what looked best… So if its ugly, blame him and not me,” he added with a short laugh.

Raising an eyebrow at him, Veronica took the bag. Pulling the zipper down and looking inside, she couldn’t believe her eyes. Her sudden squeal nearly pierced Arcade’s eardrums. From the bag came a lovely pink dress. “For me?!” she gasped, running her fingers over the fabric, “Do you mean it? No, no, its too much! Well, okay. But it’s too much! It’s perfect. Thank you. Thank you.” Hugging the gown tight against her chest, she could’nt help her stream of excited giggles.

Arcade smiled, watching the scribe pull Eddie in for another hug, seeing the genuine joy and surprise in her eyes. His admiration turned to annoyance, however, when she offered “punching lessons” as reimbursement for the dress. _Great_ , he rolled his eyes, now watching the mercenary’s face light up in excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My plan from here is to post a chapter or two more to this work, then branch out into differing works under the same series.
> 
> I'm going to cover the New Vegas dlcs with my characters. Each dlc will be getting its own work, and when they are complete I will resume to this one.
> 
> I hope you bear with me, let me know what you think so far.


	20. The Weirdest Favor

The two leaned against the crumbling building, feeling the battered brick dig into their shoulders. Though the old factory stood tall, shading them from the miserable Mojave sun, they still had nothing to do but stew in their annoyance. Sitting around like a pair of jackasses, waiting for their dumbass friend to finish with his new toy.

The mercenary sighed, pulling a pack of smokes from his back pocket. He whistled to the cowgirl, tossing the carboard box her way.

Cass shrugged and placed a cigarette between her lips. “Thanks,” she mumbled, throwing the pack back.

Ed huffed in acknowledgement, lighting up a cigarette of his own. Hearing a stifled moan from inside the building, he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself.

_“This is going to be the weirdest favor I’ve ever asked for,” Max began, “but I need you to program a robot for me.”_

_“Weird how?” Ed chuckled, “What kind of robot are we talking?”_

_“… a sexbot.”_

Not that it wasn’t fun to hack a robot, but spending the afternoon reprogramming a protectron with sexual commands hadn’t exactly been how he’d wanted to spend the day. Yet there he had been, face buried in a _Programmer’s Digest_ , trying to cobble together suitable subroutines fit for a sexbot.

_He entered the final commands into the terminal, and the pod slid open._

_“Fully Integrated Security Technotronic Officer active and reporting for duty,” the protectron chimed, whirring to life._

_“Fully Integrated Techno-wha?” Ed asked, looking at the screen. “That sure is a mouthful… I think I’ll just call you ‘Fisto’ for short.”_

_“Fisto!” Max cackled from behind him, “That is **perfect.** ”_

_Cass rolled her eyes, watching the courier double over in laughter. “So what now?” she asked, “How the hell are we supposed to get this thing back to the Wrangler?”_

_“I programmed it to respond to voice commands, thought that would be necessary in a sexual partner,” Ed chuckled. He turned to face the robot, snapping his fingers before its scanner dome. “Hey, Mr. Metal Dick! Report to the Atomic Wrangler, I gave you the coordinates, you belong to the Garrets now.”_

_“Operation complete,” it beeped._

_“…That’s it?” Max piped. “How do we know this thing works?”_

_The sexbot stepped forward. “Please assume the position.”_

_The color drained from their faces. Ed nervously chuckled, “Woah! Shit, that’s – I guess that’s confirmation.”_

_“Please assume the position,” it repeated._

_Cass guffawed, “H-hey now, watch it, buddy!” Ed laughed, and she turned to him, “Come on, its not like we’re really going to **test** this thing, right? This is fucking ridiculous!”_

_Again, Ed laughed. “Fuck no, we’re not testing this thing! Who the fuck would do that?”_

_They both turned to face the courier, who had yet to say anything._

Ed sighed, taking a long drag from his cigarette. He watched the cowgirl kick at rocks, dragging her boot through the dirt in boredom. “Cassidy, right?” he began tentatively, “So, uh… those papers Max stole from the Van Graffs, you get what you were looking for?”

She turned to him, eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”

“Glad I could help, then,” he huffed. A moment of silence passed, before he began again, “So what’s going to happen? To the Van Graffs?”

“Handed everything over the the Rangers, NCR is gonna bring it up in the courts. Everything goes to plan, and their business back West should be fucked for a good long time. Crimson Caravan too.”

The merc chuckled, “Good shit.”

Another moment passed. “Why’d you help?” she asked, “Ain’t you a Van Graff?”

“So they tell me,” he sighed. “Listen, I’m really only in it for the paycheck. I couldn’t care less about them or their business. If you need to fuck them over, get even, I ain’t going to stop you.” He looked away then, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Besides, they deserved it. Fucked up what happened to your caravan.”

She grunted an acknowledgment, taking a puff of her smoke. Another moment passed.

“I really am sorry… about your caravan. I – I hope the Van Graffs get what’s coming,” Ed muttered, eyes downcast.

“Don’t need your apologies. Least you helped Max and I get what we needed to get even…”

**WHAM!**

The door flung open, a protectron hobbled down the stairs. It said nothing as it passed them, just continued walking down the road, presumably towards Freeside.

The two exchange a glance. “Hey, Max!” Ed called through the doorway, “You good?”

A second passed. “…No,” came a croaking reply, “…I can’t feel my legs…”

Cass rolled her eyes; Ed threw his head back in laughter. Both snubbed out their cigarettes and went inside to scrape the courier off the floor. Taking either of his arms over their shoulders, the two managed to drag Max down the street.

They rounded the corner of the building when someone called out to them. “Looky what we have here ladies!” cried an old woman, dressed in a pink gown. Two more identically dressed grannies stepped out from behind her, together brandishing rolling pins. “Another unsuspecting ponce.”

Ed laughed and let go of his friend, dropping him to the floor.

The old women charged forward, makeshift clubs at the ready.

Ed raised his laser rifle and melted one. Cass threw a load of buckshot at another. From the ground, Max shot the last. Looking down at the bodies of their elderly attackers, they all looked at each other incredulously. _Could today get any weirder?_

Back at the Wrangler, each nursing a drink, the trio laughed as they watched James Garret excitedly push his newfound toy up the stairs and towards the bedrooms.

Cass downed her whiskey, and set her glass on the table. “Ok,” she laughed, “I’ve officially seen enough weird shit for today. I’m going to rent a room and turn in. Have fun, boys.”

Watching the cowgirl leave, the two friends looked at each other. They couldn’t help but laugh.

“A fucking sexbot,” Ed chuckled, taking another drink, “You owe me big time, buddy. Had to drag you and your gaping asshole all the way back here.”

“Fuck you!” the courier laughed, punching the other man in the shoulder. “You know how many times I’ve had to drag your drunk ass out of trouble?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You still owe me, dumbass.”

“Speaking of,” Max nodded, “You can have this.” Turning his arm over and unbuckling the strap, he took the pipboy off his arm and slid it across the table.

Ed picked up the personal computer, “Your pipboy? Holy shit, are you sure, man?”

“Yeah of course. I know how much you love computers, and don’t think I haven’t seen you drool over Sam and I’s pipboys.” He laughed reaching into his satchel. “Besides, I got a new one from Mick and Ralphs. Check this shit out.”

Ed couldn’t help but laugh at the gold plated, diamond encrusted monstrosity the courier slid back over his wrist.


	21. Shady Dealings

No matter which way he turned his head, the damned sun still shone directly in his eyes, only amplified by his glasses. Arcade grumbled, the hash glare interrupting his reading. Sitting on the curb outside the Atomic Wrangler, he sighed and dropped the small book back into a deep lab coat pocket. Despite himself, he still found a way to get talked into accompanying a certain mercenary on another job; once again outside the Silver Rush, waiting impatiently for Edward to finish arming himself inside.

Men in Van Graff armor escorted two pack brahmin down the block, stopping outside the casino’s front doors. From the building, and an ensemble of men poured out into the street. Imposing hardened mercenaries armed to the teeth, all lugging large cases of high-tech weapons. Ed was among them, laser rifle slung over his shoulder, assisting another woman in carrying a heavy crate.

Arcade hurried over to the mercenary, trying to keep pace with the clearly determined crew. “What is going on? What is all this?” he asked.

“Remember that mysterious drop job from weeks back?” Ed grunted, straining to lift his load, “The one out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well apparently the buyers liked what they got, finally arranged a deal with Gloria. We’re bringing the merchandise to the place she picked.”

“So who are they?”

“No idea,” the woman beside Ed interrupted. One hand on the crate handle, other hand on the plasma pistol at her hip, she turned to face the doctor trailing behind them. “They haven’t told us yet.”

“Well, whoever they are, they clearly want to arm an army,” Arcade gestured to the plethora of arms cases, “and I doubt they’ve got the best intentions in mind!”

The woman groaned, “Best intentions? The fuck is it with this guy, Black?”

The merc huffed, “Always something, believe me… I never hear the end of it.”

An abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere, the perfect spot for a totally non-suspicious arms deal.

With his free hand, Ed checked his new pipboy. He was surprised to see they weren’t too far from McCarren… so maybe _not_ the perfect rendezvous point after all. _Why the hell did Gloria arrange the meeting here?_ he wondered to himself.

“Everybody be cool, this is the place.” Gloria announced. She approached one of the building’s battered garage doors, and gave it a sharp pound. “We’re here. We’ve got what you paid for.”

A long second passed, before the steel door slowly slid upwards. It echoed an ungodly shrieking squeal, rusty gears audibly protesting as those on the other side pulled down the door chain. On the other side, centurions. Dozens dressed in ruddy red battle armor, swords and spears at the ready.

Arcade gasped, froze where he stood. _It couldn’t really be… out of all the people they were delivering an arsenal of advanced weaponry to? Caesar’s Legion?_

He head the merc chuckle darkly beside him. “Jesus fuckin Christ,” he muttered to himself.

The doctor looked at him, aghast. _Surely, they weren’t really going to allow this, right?_

Ed turned to his friend. Despite the clear worry wrinkling his brow, he merely looked over and shrugged.

Gloria spoke up. “In here,” she ordered her men.

The large crew of merc filed in through the loading dock, stacking their crates in two large piles. With another ear raking squeal, the heavy steel door closed behind them. A seemingly endless maze of wooden crates and steel shipping containers consumed most of the congested storage room, centuries old pre-war scrap lying forgotten and boxed up in towering columns.

It felt as though they were on top of each other, everyone being forced into such a confined space. Nowhere to go, nowhere to run. Arcade couldn't help but sweat nervously as he watched the legionaries glower at him from beyond the piled weapons crates.

Hours seemed to pass as the Legion commanders stepped forward, meticulously inspecting and re-inspecting every box of weapons. One would think that the legionaries, being used to simple bladed tools, would of be impressed with such advanced killing machines. However, they instead scoured over each piece with emotionless diligence, taking their time with the endeavor.

Ed brought the lighter to his lips and grumbled uncomfortably. Standing behind the boss lady, laser rifle at the ready, he eyed the Legion boys carefully. He didn’t trust them, didn’t like selling to them, couldn’t wait for this deal to be over; but of course, those dirty fuckers were taking their sweet time with it. Taking a deep drag off his cigarette and blowing his annoyance out his nose, he watched the tendrils of wispy smoke float around his head and tangle with the tangible tension in the air.

He watched Gloria finish whispering something to Jean-Baptiste; the large man hesitated, before finally nodding. Orders given, she turned from her brother, catching Edward’s eye.

She slowly walked toward him. “They’re taking an awfully long time inspecting the weapons,” she said in a hushed voice, “I’m beginning to think they’re doing it just to unnerve us. Don’t let them rattle you though. The deal’s almost done. There’s just one last piece of business left.”

Ed hummed inquisitively around his cigarette, taking another long pull.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully. Things are about to get a little crazy. When I give the signal, follow my lead, ok?”

The merc simply chuckled, “Yes, ma’am,” he said darkly, voice oozing sarcasm.

He thought he saw her almost crack a smile. “That’s what I like about you. You follow orders, for the most part. Just remember to wait for the signal.” With that, she moved to rejoin her Legion buyers.

Ed turned around, finding his trusty doctor nervously pacing in the back of the room. He caught Arcade’s eye and gave him a wink, motioning with his rifle.

“I trust you find everything acceptable,” Gloria coolly asked the Legion commander.

He turned from his inspection, closing the lid to one of the cases. “Everything seems to be in order. _Caesar_ will not soon forget this.”

“No, I imagine he won’t.”

Silver cannisters dropped from above, releasing thick clouds of blinding smoke throughout the room.

“It’s a trap!” the commander cried in horror, “Fall back! Fall –“

The centurion was abruptly blasted by a tri-beam laser, turned to ash by Jean-Baptiste. Gloria shouted the command, and the room erupted into a dazzle of blinding light. A hail of zipping red lasers and glowing green plasma rained down upon the Legionaries, who scattered panicked into the maze of shipping crates.

Gunfire erupted from overhead, and NCR soldiers poured down from the catwalks above. The khaki-clad grunts pursued the Legion into the maze – spraying every corner with automatic fire, raining grenades down from above. Before long, the sprawling room was sufficiently cleared of all remaining resistance.

At last the sun had set, sparing his weary eyes. Seated along the cool concrete ledge of the loading dock, Arcade stretched his long legs across the coarse sand. He dropped his plasma pistol in his lap, and his head in his hands.

While the thought of selling arms to the Legion had disgusted him, he never imagined the solution would involve simply killing the lot of them. Evil does not justify evil. The Legion was undoubtedly a threat to the Mojave, but that didn’t make fighting them any less wrong. Blood was still spilt, he still had to end another’s life, engage in evil to extinguish evil.

His attention is rattled, someone shoves his shoulder.

“You good, big boy?” Ed asked, standing behind the sullen doctor.

Arcade sighed deeply, looking back at his hands. “What the fuck happened in there?” he breathed.

He heard Ed chuckle darkly behind him, heard the click of his cigarette lighter. “We greased those fuckers,” the merc laughed. “Legion approached us for guns… and we said ‘Fuck you’. Apparently, Gloria worked out a deal with NCR – lure the legion buyers into a trap, get paid. Sounds like a good deal to me.”

Ed leaned back against the building, noting the other man’s silence. “Thought you’d be happy. Don’t you hate the Legion?”

“I do,” Arcade breathed, “but that doesn’t mean I enjoy killing them. They’re still human beings, no matter how monstrous. I don’t know how you enjoy it, the violence.”

The merc shrugged, smirking. “Like you said, they’re monsters. We’re doing everyone a favor melting these fucks.”

“How utilitarian of you. I know that, objectively speaking, eliminating the legion serves as the greatest utility for – “

“Spare me the lesson in moral philosophy, Professor Kant,” Ed groaned, rolling his eyes. “I’ve spent enough time at the Boston Public Library, I understand everything you could possibly be going to argue next.”

“But –“

“Shuddap,” he continued, “Look, Arcade, I’m not saying you have to enjoy this shit. But we both know that putting these bastards in the ground is what’s best for everyone. You said you wanted to give everyone a fair shot, so that’s what the fuck we’re doing.”

The doctor scoffed, “So hitting caravans for the Van Graffs is _fair?_ ”

“I know it’s not,” he sighed. “But what the fuck do you want from me? I’ve gone above and beyond for the Followers. I sent Veronica your way, gave that pre-war data on ED-E to you and your friends. _Fuck_ , I even rerouted Helios One to shit out power to the whole Mojave, pissed off Knox and his fucking NCR cronies that I didn’t give NCR full control…”

A moment passed, neither man spoke.

“Would you have gone through with it?” the doctor asked, “Selling the guns to the Legion?”

He took a long drag off his cigarette. “I don’t know.”


	22. Across the River

He stepped off the longboat, boots sinking into the ruddy brown mud of the shoreline – and immediately regretted his coming here. Up the hill before him marched an army of ants, a supply line of shackled women shouldering tons of gear. Human pack brahmin burdened with boulders, they trudged onward up the hillside steps, past the scattered forest of makeshift crosses. From atop the high walls cresting the peak, banners of bulls billowed in the breeze.

A menacing legionary met them at the shore – distrust in his eyes, hand on his sword. “By order of _Caesar_ , all visitors must disarm and relinquish all banned items. Chems and alcohol are strickly forbidden, and you must relinquish your arms upon entry.”

Weapons and whiskey bottles were collected from the party, but the courier clung onto his satchel. “I have to bring these stimpacks along,” he protested, “I have a congenital heart defect, and need my medication.”

The legionnaire retracted his hands, face wrought with disgust. “I know not why _Caesar_ would wish to speak with such an inferior whelp,” he spat, “but I will allow this exception.”

With that, Courier Six handed over the platinum chip, and was escorted up the hillside.

The moment they passed the threshold of the fortification gate, all eyes were upon them. Rather, on the backup the courier had brought behind him.

He knew the seven-foot mountain of muscle trailing behind him would secure them relatively safe passage. Even the most battle hardened of legionaries stepped back, out of the path of the oncoming beast; Lily snarled anxiously at those around them, parting the sea of red tunics for her beloved grandchild.

However, as they passed by the rows of tents and makeshift market stalls, heads followed not the super mutant, but the girl. Awestruck slaves, gazing at the forgotten sight of a free woman. Whispers among the foot soldiers of _trying out the new one_. Hungry hunters sizing up a new piece of meat. Max regretted bringing Cass along, hadn’t thought about how the Legion viewed women. He clutched his bag tighter to his side, if anyone tried to lay a hand on her, he way going to take theirs.

War drums pounded. The tent flaps were pulled aside. The flickering fires of burning torches. Powerfisted pretorians lining the walls. At the end of the curtained-off courtyard, a chair of polished bone and sharpened spears. Tendrils of red cloth streamed down the animal pelts like blood, dripping from the pointed ends of the iron pikes. The emperor himself seated at his throne.

The drums stopped; his voice boomed. “You’re the courier who’s caused so much trouble for my Legion, and yet you dare come before me? The slaying of my fearless Vulpes Inculta, the destruction of my garrison at Nelson, the sabotaging of profitable deals between the Van Graffs and the Omertas – all at the hands of you and your friends. So tell me this, because I really want to know – I am feared, with good reason. But you, of all people, dare to come here and stand before _me_ , the mighty _Caesar_? What were you thinking?”

Max took a confident step forward, “You promised my safety.” He held out the bronze coin he’d been given by that legion spy, weeks ago.

“And you fell for that? Really? Because I’m going to have you killed now.”

The trio paled; the pretorians stepped forward.

A second passed, before Caesar dropped his scowl. “…Relax. I’m fucking with you.” The dictator leaned back in his throne, “You do know why I wanted to meet you, right? A man nearly kills you, so you track him across the breadth of the Mojave? You arrive on the Strip and waltz into the Lucky 38 like someone left you the key under the doormat? You execute the head of the chairman in his own home?” A smile slowly spread across the man’s face, “When you set your mind to something, you get results. I like that. The question is… are you ready to get started?”

“… ‘Get started’?”

Caesar shifted his weight forward, his crushing gaze meeting the courier’s eyes. “I’m offering you one chance at redemption. The time is fast approaching when my Legion will assault the great dam and invade the west. Before that happens, I want Mr. House knocked out of the game, a quick one-two punch – with you doing the punching.”

The wastelander swallowed, “Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one who can. Down the hill, at the west edge of camp, is an old building. It was here when the Fort was taken in 2277. Inside the building is a hatch, and inside that hatch are two steel doors that bear the sigil of the Lucky 38 casino. You’ve been inside the 38, and I’m assuming House has given you a key to get in the building.” He paused for a second, staring the man down before continuing. “Out of your mercenary friends, you have done the least damage to our Legion. Stumbling upon Nipton and the Omertas by _mistake_. Now my men could’ve just crucified you and taken what we need, but I’m going to offer you a one-time mercy to spare your soul. You will go into that building, and destroy whatever is down there.”

Max stood frozen for a second, taken aback. He actually had to stop himself from scoffing. _It couldn’t be that easy, could it?_

The main control bank sat in front of him – all flashing lights and buttons, clunky buttons and switches. What any of it meant, he had no idea. He didn’t have the first idea what to do with computer terminals, so why the hell was House making him do this. Fuck, why the hell was _Caesar_ making him do this?

He swept his eyes across the dials, clueless, stopping at the coin-shaped slot at the top of the console; it seemed to fit the platinum chip. He sure as hell wasn’t going to do what Caesar wanted and blow this place up around him, but he didn’t know if he wanted someone like House having a potential secret weapon to take over Vegas. With a nervous sigh, he inserted the chip… and hoped for the best.

Alarms blared. The ground shook. An ungodly rumbling echoed throughout the vault. A thousand mechanized hearts began to beat.

He staggered towards the far wall, bracing himself against the window. Through the glass, a sea of securitrons stretched farther than he could see. Pressed against the other side, a securitron on proud display. Its shoulder plates shifted, rockets revealed; its screen fighting static, flashing the fearsome face of a battle hardened soldier.

Just as he’d seen below the Lucky 38, after plucking the platinum chip from that bloodstained checkered pocket – handing it over to its rightful owner. House had eagerly demonstrated the full capabilities of his upgraded robots, putting on a show of lasers and explosives for his loyal employee. Slinging missiles and capable of self-repairing, damn-near indestructible – Benny was right, House really had one hell of an ace up his sleeve.

The main monitor over the console blinked to life. The all-seeing eyes of the man who oversaw every step of his journey, gazing ghastly and green.

“Your work here is done,” the mustachioed image deadpanned, “Return to the Lucky 38 so we can discuss next steps.” He could almost hear the computer screen smile, “You have a very bright future ahead of you. Thanks to your actions today, so does the rest of mankind.”

“Holy shi- What the f- “ Max was speechless, he didn’t know where to begin. ”Those securitrons,” he sputtered, “what the fuck are you going to do with them?”

House almost seemed to chuckle, “My army will do what an army does best – defend territory from invaders… and maintain _order.”_

The screen went blank, leaving the courier with his thoughts – not that he could hear them over the rumble of the waking warriors. While House’s original show of power had proved exciting, witnessing this proved horrifying. These steel soldiers would be impossible to defeat, giving the man complete control over the Strip. _What would happen to everyone else?_ The ground continued to shake, he swallowed hard. _What kind of order would a man like that enforce?_

Surfacing from the buried bunker, he immediately found himself at knifepoint. The sun had just begun to set, a scattering of torches shone throughout the camp; menacing shadows were cast across the enclosing legionaries, washing over them like the blood of their victims. Waiting there for him, his companions, impatient and restless.

Cass hurried over to him. She saw the glance he gave her, a silent “ _you ok?_ ” after leaving her alone with the sea of slavers. Nodding her head and waving over the mutant, Cass watched as he clutched his satchel closer.

The wall of red armor parted before them. The emperor himself had come out to see them, flanked from behind by the protective pretorians.

“I felt the ground shake,” the bald man boomed, “I’ll take that as a sign you got the job done.”

Max chuckled. “Of course, your majesty,” he sang, giving an exaggerated curtsy with his shirt.

A disgusted sneer spread across Caesar’s face, and he opened his mouth to speak. His head snapped backwards. Blood splattered across his guards.

_Boom!_

He racked the bolt back and forth, rechambering the rifle. Through the scope, he watched the dictator drop – heard the ringing in his ears stop. Pulling the trigger again, Boone dropped a pretorian.

_Boom!_

Another pretorian falls, Max cocked his revolver for another shot. Reaching back into his satchel, he tossed another pistol to the cowgirl. The mutant tore a torch pike from the ground and charged into the mass of legionaries. Guns firing wildly, the mutant snarling madly, the trio hurriedly cut down any red armor before them – making a mad dash back to the shoreline.

Gunfire erupted behind them, soldiers rushing from their tents get cut down in a hail of fire; their guardian angels had arrived. Another gets a round through the eye, Boone reloaded his rifle. The ghoul’s .44 magnum punched easily through their pre-war sporting armor. With a 12-gauge pump and an automatic rifle, the very specter of death began to lay waste upon the legion. Shell casings hit the sand, the guttural squelch of stabbing knives, blood splattered across glasses. The ground shook, an explosion sounded.

_BOOM!_

A mushroom cloud engulfed the opposite side of camp, lighting the darkening sky like burning bright candle flame. From beyond the smoldering destruction, the mercenary cackled manically. Dropping the Fatman launcher from his shoulder and readying his gatling laser, Eddie rained fire upon the hilltop. The two suits of towering power armor, the merc and his scribe, indiscriminately reduced the camp’s far flank to ash – drawing attention away from the docks.

Dodging bullets, hiding behind a mountain of purple muscle, the boats were launched. Knox and Raul took one; the courier and his crew took the last – leaving the legion without a way to pursue them across the river.

The sniper didn’t stop firing until he ran dry of ammo. He killed as many as he could, then with a whisper to his wife and once last look at Caesar’s corpse, slipped silently into the approaching night.

Upon seeing the boats leave shore, the steel-clad duo made a hasty retreat. Laying down one last mininuke for cover, they quickly scuttled their armor, thermite grenades reducing the motorized suits to scalding slag – they’d be too heavy for an effective retreat, but too dangerous to leave behind for their enemies to find. Several stealth boys switched on, and the pair vanished into the desert sand.


End file.
